


Like a Mexican Coke Bottle

by kasuutan



Category: Free!
Genre: 69, Bathroom Sex, Frotting, Lap dancing, M/M, Masturbation, Pole Dancing, Rimming, aggressive anal fingering, drunk canoodling, haruka in tiny shorts and probably also high heels, itll do you so me good, not obeying stripper protocol, please pay attention to the pairing tags as we move along with this, self-indulgent stripper au, this tag list will be as long as the bible when i am done with this, underaged drinking, wet dreams
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-10-15
Updated: 2015-03-31
Packaged: 2018-02-21 06:39:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 40,210
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2458487
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kasuutan/pseuds/kasuutan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>And this one, this one looks about as self-conscious as Haru feels. And maybe that’s why he does it, why he crawls off the stage, takes his hand, and pulls. Haru can’t miss that look, and he wants to call it admiration. It’s different, and maybe, that’s not so bad after all. </p><p>Haru's lost, has something to prove, and Rin's found him a new job. Makoto's anxious, stuck at home, and maybe he needs something less stagnant. </p><p>Aka the stripper!au oneshot that got out of hand and evolved into a monster</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. suck it and sea

**Author's Note:**

> recommended listening dropped by dj. pussykraken aka @thiengod: http://8tracks.com/jaed-png/d-ddy-s-l-p-hihb-mexican-coke-limited-edition-ep-release/edit check out her mixtape

 

Haru can fit all his belongings into two duffle bags and a backpack. He can carry his entire life in two hands and over his shoulders. That’s how he makes it, how he steps onto the train, leaning against the windows as he watches the ocean grow farther and farther away until its just a thin, blue line in the distance.

His arms are getting heavy, and his back feels like it’s holding up the world, but he stands the entire train ride to Tokyo.

 

The first thing Haru notices about Rin’s apartment is the smell. He tries to not wrinkle his nose at the pungent _I’ll-never-be-able-to-get-this-smell-out-because-it’s-absorbed-into-the-carpets_ stench of instant ramen mixed with house cleaner mixed with chlorine.

“Thought you’d never make it, you’re like three hours late.” Rin takes Haru’s duffle bags while the other boy toes off his shoes.

“Sorry. I got lost.” Haru doesn’t need to let Rin know he’d gotten lost by sitting on the bench outside the train station, taking in the polluted smell and artificial lights of downtown Tokyo, wondering where and when the hell he went wrong to end up here. 

“Nah, it’s fine. I get it, big place, nothing like back home. But hell, your timing is fucking perfect. You won’t believe the shit I’ve gone through this week, roommate just up and hauling ass to Kyoto to elope with his girlfriend. Didn’t even bother to give me a two week’s notice,” Haru’s only half listening as he follows Rin past the kitchen and down the hallway.

“Fuckin’ straight dudes, don’t trust them.” Haru senses more malice in Rin’s voice, and it’s clear there’s more of a problem between him and his ex-roommate than an abrupt departure.

“So this is it. I did you the favor of cleaning the sheets because-” Rin scratches the back of his neck and Haru has the sense to be slightly put-off. “Well. Nevermind. We share a bathroom, and I know you take baths like you’re some kind of goddamn fish, so do me a favor and take them after I leave for school. Bathroom is the first door you walked past when we got in. I’m across the hall.” He drops Haru’s bags in the corner and sits on the frameless mattress. Haru follows to do the same, cheap springs creaking and sinking below his weight. They’re quiet for a bit, and Haru counts the amount of horn blares he hears from the street below. When he gets to ten, Haru sighs and says,

“Rin.”

“What?”

“...thanks.” And Rin’s looking at him with an expression bordering on pity, and Haru suddenly regrets saying anything at all.

“Nah. No. Don’t say that. It’s fine.” Rin’s gripping his shoulder, close enough for it to register as “ _I’m trying to comfort you,_ ” but enough distance between them to also come off as slightly forced and awkward. Neither of them saying anything, until Rin stretches and mentions something about needing to finish an assignment before getting ready for work.

“Make yourself at home. There’s ramen in the cupboard.” Haru wonders vaguely if Rin’s eaten anything other than instant ramen since he moved up here. “And also, Haru.” Haru finally looks up. Looks right at Rin. Sees the concern in his face and it makes him want to look away again.

“You’ll be fine. It’s okay.”

Haru doesn’t get a chance to respond, because Rin’s closing his new bedroom door behind him, but even if he did, he’s sure he wouldn’t have anything to say back except “ _It’s not”_.

 

The second thing Haru learns very quickly about Rin’s apartment is the fridge is always empty. Save for a carton of milk and maybe, on a good day, some packaged deli meat, Rin’s kitchen consists of protein powder, instant ramen, obscene amounts of Pocket Sweat, and a shit ton of instant coffee.

“Aren’t you an athlete?” is all Haru has to say as he wonders if he can make anything platable from slimey turkey and ramen base. Rin shrugs, chugging down the remains of a protein shake and wiping the back of his hand across his mouth.

“Yeah, but I’m on a meal program at the university, so I don’t even eat here. All that ramen is So-” Haru raises a brow while Rin scowls into his empty glass.

“S-so unhealthy. But yeah, I don’t really buy food. You’re on your own there.” Rin crosses the kitchen to the sink and washes his glass before placing it back on the shelf. “What are you up to today, anyways?” Haru shrugs.

“Job hunting.” He contemplates the package of what used to be turkey in his right hand before shaking his head and tossing it into the garbage. “And probably grocery shopping.” He settles for a bottle of water, turning down Rin’s insistence of protein powder. They sit across from each other on the kitchen floor because Rin’s old room-mate had taken all his furniture with him, which included the kitchen table, the second bed frame, every single chair in the goddamn apartment, and the media cabinet.

Rin leans his head back, knocking it into the dishwasher.

“Good luck finding a job here. Tokyo is fucking huge, but unless you have four years of cash register experience, plus working towards a masters degree in biochem, PLUS a flexible schedule in which you can work swing shifts, closing shifts AND be on call, then you’re pretty much shit out of luck.” Haru hums, tracing patterns into the condensation gathered on the bottle.

“I’ll manage.” he mumbles before taking a sip and looking off towards the stove.

“No, I’m serious. If you want a real job, like a normal person job, then you’re in the wrong city.”

“You say that like you don’t have a job.” Haru quips because he knows it isn’t true. Rin’s out 3 out of 7 nights of the week working, and he has groggy recollections of keys jingling in the door and muffled cussing every Saturday, Sunday, and Monday at around 3 AM. Rin chokes on nothing, making a show of pounding his fist on his chest and clearing his throat.

“Well I- it’s not necessarily a- ah, fuck it.” Rin scratches the back of his neck, which Haru’s notice has been a habit of his since before high school. “I’ll take you to it. It’s better you see rather than I tell you.” The redhead lets out a laugh. “Hell, you’d probably be better at it than I am, knowing your history. Maybe you won’t have to go job hunting after all.”

“Huh?” is Haru’s eloquent response.   
“You still wearing jammers underneath your clothes so you can peel out of them at the first site of water?” Haru crosses his arms in front of him subconsciously, like Rin can see through his clothes.

“It’s just easier that way.” Haru says flatly. Rin grins, and Haru wonders if he files his teeth.

“Good, you won’t be out of practice.” He chuckles, tipping his head to the side. “It’d be fucking great, best way to rebel against your folks.” Haru tightens his grip on the bottle, plastic popping noisily beneath his fingers.

“Ah, sorry. Too soon?”

“Too soon.”  Rin’s phone beeps in his pocket, and the redhead lets out a groan.

“Fuck, I have to go. Weekend conditioning sucks.” He gets to his feet, grabbing Haru’s half-full bottle of water and chugging the rest down. Haru watches him, unmoved from his position against the fridge.

“I’ll be home by 9, and I leave for work at 10:30. Be ready by then and I’ll take you. If you’re late, I’m leaving your sorry ass behind, so no life-contemplating soaks in the tub.”

“But where are w-”

The door slams shut, and Haru’s alone again with an empty plastic bottle and nothing but instant ramen for company.

 

There’s crumpled clothes all over his room, tossed carelessly onto the floor, onto the mattress, and yet Haru is still standing there in yesterday’s baggy sweats and a towel wrapped around his shoulders.

“Don’t you own-” a sweatshirt flies past over Haru’s head and hits a lamp. “-anything remotely-” his favorite pale-blue button up collides with the heater, and Haru feels a little dejected. “-not dorky as fuck.” A pair of jeans hits Haru in the face, and he’s just about had it.

“My clothes are fine.”

“No, literally everything you own is blue.”

“At least I don’t own 12 of the same tank top”

“...tank tops…”

“No.”

“But Har-”

“Get out.” Haru can hear Rin calling “But HARU tank tops make ANYONE look hot.” from the other side of the door. He turns the lock for good measure and collects his clothes.

Rin never bothered to tell Haru where exactly they were going, why Haru was expected to “dress up” to see where Rin worked, and why the equivalent of “dress up” was to wear something that, direct quote from Rin himself, “ _screams ‘I’m fucking hot, but don’t fucking touch me because you aren’t worth my time_.’”  
The meaning of this is completely lost on Haru, because frankly, he looks the second part of that on a regular basis. The first half, he’s ignoring completely as he slips into his rejected blue button up and most comfortable pair of jeans.

“Do you own any pants that cover your ankles?” is all Rin has to say, looking down at Haru’s legs like they’ve offended him. “Because ankle pants are the sure-fire way to tell someone’s a queer.”

“At least I roll up both legs, not just one to show off my extensive collection of anklets.”

“That was a HIGH SCHOOL PHASE.”

“Sure.”

Rin lets out an over exaggerated sigh, like he’s been practicing it, before twirling his keys around his finger and cocking his head in the direction of the door.

“I guess you look fine. We’re already three minutes late, so let’s go.”

Haru glances at his phone as Rin locks the apartment behind him, and the clock says 10:18. Three minutes late to being fifteen minutes early.

 

“You can laugh at me, I know you want to, you ass.”

“I’m not going to laugh.”

“You don’t have to hold back.”

“I’m not holding anything back.”

“Just fUCKING LAUGH AT ME ALREADY.” Rin’s shouting over the thumping bass of the club music. Haru has a feeling that Rin is more offput by his employment than Haru ever will be.

“It’s fine. It’s nothing to laugh about.” And Haru means it, he really does, but Rin’s crossing his arms over his too-tight police uniform, complete with fishnet stockings and handcuffs.

“It pays well and it’s the only job college students can get in this godawful city.”

“Okay.” Haru doesn’t need convincing.

“It pays the rent and gives me a little extra spending money.”

“That’s great.” Haru’s telling the truth.

“It’s not like I WANT TO DO THIS, okay?!”

“I believe you.” Haru kind of just wants to go home, he can feel the heat of every other person in the whole club, coating his skin like a film that he’ll never be able to scrub off no matter how many times he bathes. But he’s still standing backstage with Rin looking seriously uncomfortable as the other dancers brush past him. Haru feels nothing but unpleasantly sticky, unphased by Rin’s work, the people around him, the setting he’s been dragged to, and the prospect of what he’s going to watch Rin do in the next few minutes. Haruka Nanase is inexperienced, but he isn’t dense, and as Rin laces up his knee high boots, the only thing he can think is “ _That must be so inconvenient to strip out of_.”

“Zip-up boots would be better.”

“Fucking excuse me?” Rin bites, looking up from his boots to narrow his eyes at his friend.

“Shoes with zippers. Easier to get out of than ones with laces.” Rin stares back at him, jaw slacked, annoyance flickering across his eyes.

“I cannot believe you, notorious virgin of the seven seas, are telling me how to do my goddamn job.”

Haru pretends he doesn’t see Rin unlacing his boots behind the shoe rack, replacing them with a pair of zip-up platform gogos.

 

If anyone can watch an entire line up of pole dancers from start to finish with a critical eye, it’s Haruka Nanase. He’s sitting off to the side, obscured from the audience with a curtain, but absolutely nothing is left to Haru’s imagination when it comes to the strippers. It’s not that he _isn’t_ admiring, because _of course_ he is, but for completely different reasons than the rest of the viewers. Haru finds himself watching the way the dancers move, how the best performers are so fluid and confident, and Haru can’t help himself from comparing the act to water. In the back of his mind, he silently wishes he could find some other similes for things he finds visually pleasing, but the description always seemed to fit; the dancers moved confidently, like Haru did when gliding through water. Maybe this wasn’t so different, maybe this-

“...what?” Rin’s in front of him suddenly, sweat beading at his hairline. He runs a towel over his forehead. “What are you thinking about?” Haru blinks once before snapping back to impassiveness and shrugging.

“Looks fun.” Rin knits his brows together, creases forming at the corners of his eyes and the bridge of his nose.

“Is that sarcasm? Who’s apartment are you living in again?” Haru raises his hands half-heartedly in defense.

“I’m not joking. It looks fun.” And Haru means it.

Rin opens his mouth, probably to let out a snarling comment regarding how what he’s doing is totally _not fun_ and how _dare_ Haru even say something like that, but he loses the chance when a series of jovial hoots fill the backstage room.

“Great work tonight, babes! Nothing less from the greatest guys in town, y’all are getting extra tips tonight! Full house, career night is a hit with the crowd!” There’s more hooting, along with a few impressive whistles (one coming from Rin himself) and Haru thinks he hears something akin to a meow.

“Ah, Rin! Great work tonight!” Rin surges forward as a large hand claps him on the back. “Man you were WORKING that police outfit, whoowee, I’m feeling sorry for whoever has to clean up the mess you made of the front row. If I were just a little younger, hey I’d be pop-”

“Ew. No. Stop right there, Sasabe.” Rin’s brushing the hand off his back, arms out and palms upturned. “You’re as old as my dad would be, and frankly that’s fucking gross.” Sasabe, or Mid-Life-Crisis-Hair as Haru has dubbed him because, _really? crow-foot yellow with stars shaved into the side?_ stands back with his hands on his hips, belly-deep laugh carrying over any other sound in the club.

“I’m kidding, I’m kidding! Just letting you know you killed, and your pay tonight is gonna reflect that.” Haru doesn’t miss the little twitch in Rin’s lips at the mention of more pay. “But enough, who’s the kitten? New date?” It takes Haru roughly three seconds to realize “the kitten” is him, and ironically, it takes roughly two more for him to bristle, like a cat puffing up after having its tail stepped on.

“No.” Haru says far too quickly, and he’s not sure what he’s saying no to more, the prospect of being called “kitten” or the idea of being Rin’s date.

“Ah, yeah that’s right. Last you told me, you were with So-”

“-SOME ASSHOLE.” Rin sputters so carelessly that Haru sees the spit fly from Rin’s mouth first and feels it land on his own face second. The redhead coughs into his fist awkwardly before continuing. “This is my new roommate. He just moved in with me from Iwatobi last week after the asshole bailed. He was talking about looking for a job and I was like ‘nah man, that shit isn’t possible here’ and he asked what my job was so…” Rin trails off, like he’s ashamed or something, and Haru just stares straight past him at the stage. Haru doesn’t even realize where he’s looking, kind of just has his gaze focused on some indiscernible spot in the distance, until mid-life-crisis-hair is looking at him with this look like he’s found something incredibly relevant to his interest. Haru stares straight back.

“Good looking friend you got here Rin.” Haru scowls just a little bit, lips turning down at the corners and eyes narrowing.

“Yeah, I guess, if you’re into pretty boys.” Haru prickles and he’s secretly cursing god for not knowing the subway route home, otherwise he would have left immediately after being called “kitten”.

“You’d be surprised about how many people are, RinRin.” Sasabe is still eyeing him critically, gaze sweeping from head to toe, and Haru has the suspicion he’s being rated unfairly. He hears Rin scoff, tapping his heel against the tiled floors.

“You’re wasting your time, Sasabe. Haru wouldn’t know ‘sexy’ if a cock smacked him in the cheek.” Haru actually grimaces this time, eyes rolling because it’s not even worth the effort to comment back.

“He is REALLY good at getting out of his clothes though, you won’t believe the number of places we’ve gotten kicked out of all because he couldn’t keep his fucking pants on near the fount-”

“Rin.”

“Huh?”

“Shut up.”

Sasabe makes some weird “ohoho” noise, like he’s discovered something else interesting, and Rin’s sneering at him, sharp teeth bared in all their shark-glory.

There’s a clatter of plastic against tile, along with a little yelp from behind the curtain.

“M-matsuoka-san!” A head of silver and a face that’s just short of terrified pops into the back room.

“Nitori.” Rin’s face flips from sneering asshole to sultry badboy in less time than it would take for Haru to react to a body of water.

“G-good work out there, Matsuoka-san! I-I’ve scheduled your private sessions for tonight! There are five in total, three twenty minute sessions, and two thirty with a fifteen minute break between each!” If Haru had the capacity to be impressed with anything, he’d be impressed with how organized the club is, but Haruka Nanase doesn’t do impressed.

There’s another loud thump of a hand against Rin’s back, followed by a muffled “oomph”.

“Work it, RinRin! Keep those boys coming!” Haru wants to cover his ears because the pun is too awful to deal with after this overly-eventful evening.

“Rin. How do I get home?” is all Haru needs to know right now.

“Oh, right. You just-” and then Rin stops, because there’s hands on both their shoulders, and a poorly-bleached head between them.

“No need to go so soon, kitten! We’ve got an interview to take care of.”

The last thing Haru sees is Rin doubled over in his fishnet stockings and tiny shorts, before he’s ushered into a tiny, modest office.

 

Haru likes the decor. It’s simple, the color palette is muted and easy on the eyes. Sasabe gestures to one of the chairs in front of his desk.

“I’m fine.” Haru says, because he knows that if he sits, it implies that he wants to stay, and frankly, his bed (or mattress, he should say) sounds very comfortable, even if the springs dig into his back.

Sasabe just nods and takes a seat behind the desk, leaning forward on one elbow. His eyes are roaming up and down Haru’s body again, and under any other circumstance from any other person, Haru would probably feel uncomfortable. But for once, he doesn’t, and it’s probably the way Sasabe is looking at him, like he’s being critical and not objective.

“How tall are you?” Haru blinks.

“Less than 180cm” because Haru hasn’t been measured since physicals for his high school swim club. Sasabe blinks like he’s surprised.

“You look taller. It’s probably the legs.” Haru doesn’t know what that means, because he’s pretty sure everyone has legs. Sasabe digs into his desk drawer and pulls out a box of cigarettes. He offers the box to Haru, which Haru just stares at until Sasabe drops it on the table top.

“So, what’s your name, kitten?” The lighter flickers in Sasabe’s hand.

“Not kitten.” And Sasabe laughs, smoke puffing out into the room and rising to the ceiling. Haru follows it first with his eyes, then tilts his head back until the grey dissipates into the air. When he looks back, mid-life-crisis-hair has this look on his face, like the face he’s seen Kisumi make when he watches those stupid cute animal videos on youtube.

“Alright, then what is it?” Haru considers the question.

“Haru. Haruka.”

And Sasabe laughs again, straight from the gut and it hurts Haru’s ears a little bit.

“Oh, Rin must have told you about the girly name thing. No, kid. Your real name. Haruka’s good though, pretty.” Haru has no idea how to react to that, so he does what he knows how to: stays quiet and stares.

“...oh.”

“It’s my real name.” Haru finally says firmly.

“...yeah. I. I got that now. Cool. Thanks. Still a pretty name.” Haru turns his head to the side.

“So, Haruka. What do you identify with more, nurses or marines?”

Finally, Haruka sits down.

 

It takes about an hour, half of which is spent with Sasabe convincing him that _no_ , Tobimaru-kun and ShimaShima-chan are not cute stripper names, and that _yeah_ , let’s stick with Haruka, _just don’t talk a lot and you’ll be fine_ , for Haruka to walk out of the office with a new work schedule and a training manual. It feels very professional, the way the office lights are so artificial that Haru forgets that it’s literally 2 AM, not the normal time for a formal interview. Even the training materials look official, with fine print that Haru can’t read no matter how close he gets, and very formal instructions on how to perform very complicated pole maneuvers without injuring oneself.

It takes another twenty minutes to get home, and Haru is definitely sure those twenty minutes feel about twelve times longer than the hour of his interview. It’s saying a lot, after being asked questions like “How do you feel about g-strings?” (he doesn’t) and “Are you uncomfortable with being wet, because we use a lot of oil and water for effect” (he isn’t).

For once, Haru wishes there were more people on the train, but it’s two in the morning and his only company is dirty subway seats, the drunk guy sleeping across the back row, and Rin. One of these things is significantly more unpleasant than the other two, and to be honest the seats aren’t that uncomfortable, and the drunk man isn’t bothering anyone.

“I can’t fucking believe you actually went for it!” Rin is howling, actually howling, like slapping-his-knee howling.

“You’re loud.”

“And YOU’RE insane!” 

“This was your idea.”

“Yeah, like I thought you’d listen to me? This is gold, Haru, fucking gold. I am having the time of my life right now.” Rin tilts his head back and lets out an almost hysterical laugh.

“It’s not that funny. It’s a job.” And that’s how Haru sees it. It’s a job, it looked fun, more engaging than packing groceries or filing papers. Looks fun because here, he chooses what to do, how to do it. He’s drawn back to the way that the dancers move, the fluidity of it, and he thinks, maybe, he could make it work.

But Rin’s howling again, or maybe he never stopped, and Haru doesn’t have time to think about his life choices because Rin is doing it for him.

“Haruka Fucking Nanase, what happened to you?” That’s when he freezes, fingers scratching into the fabric of his pants.

“Ace freestyle swimmer, best in the country, they said. Man, I could never fucking win, you know how much that sucked?” Rin’s turning things into being about him again, and Haru lets it happen. “You had it made, you piece of shit. Scholarships, scouts, everything, right there. Why the fuck are you here again?”

Okay, so maybe Rin is a little bit intoxicated. Just a bit. Haru can smell it in his breath and on his clothes, so maybe it’s not him that’s taking but the alcohol.

But there’s too much behind it, too much truth, and Haru-

“Because I’m not like you, Rin.” Rin makes that ohoho noise that he probably picked up from Sasabe.

“Really? Well you could have had me fooled, call me up late at night all like ‘Rin I need help’ cuz your parents already got fucking sick of it, then you take my goddamn job, like okay, whatever.” Rin exhales, and slumps his head forward. “Just fucking whatever.”

Haru wants to be mad, he is mad, but it just takes too much effort to argue with Rin, he’s learned that. He takes it, let’s it fester in him for a bit, tells himself he’ll feel bad about it later, and just stares straight through everything.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> next time we have makoto walking up into the club all like what up i live with my parents and im self conscious please leave me suggestions of what you want to see haru peel off his stupid pretty body in the future at kasuutan.tumblr.com or @kasuutan on twitter


	2. i bet that you look good on the dance floor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in which we learn to not flirt with bartenders to get drinks when you're underaged, and definitely DO NOT trick your friends into drinking more than they think they are, and also to NOT make morally questionable decisions when working in sex industry.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this spiraled out of control and i dont know how many regrets i actually have

Within two weeks, Haru becomes intimately familiar with the ugly support beam in the living room. He makes it a point to only practice when Rin’s in class, not for his own sake, but for Rin’s.  He's made it very clear he wants to retain a sense of normalcy in his house, wants to pretend that “Goddammit we are two normal guys living in a normal apartment and are definitely NOT BOTH STRIPPERS.”

Haru doesn’t really get it, as he hangs upside down, gripping the support beam between his thighs. He slides down, planting his hands flat on the ground before flipping back off into a standing position. He doesn’t really get Rin’s adamant hatred, the way he practically spits when he talks about their jobs.  It’s always been this way, Rin deciding Haru’s feelings for him, deciding how he should feel about certain things, assuming that they felt the same. It’s not much different from when they were in high school, Haru thinks. He rolls his hips against the beam in time to the music playing from his muffled phone speakers. He wraps his thighs around the pole again and hoists himself up to the ceiling.

Haru finds himself thinking about what Rin told him on the train two full weekends ago.

_What happened to you?_

_You had it made_

_Because they got fucking sick of it._

Haru hooks a knee around the beam and arches off against the pole, back formed in a perfect C. He lets himself slide down, lets himself believe that maybe, maybe, he should feel ashamed of where he’s ended up.

Because he lets himself believe, Haru can’t understand that little feeling tickling the back of his throat, tickling him like there’s something he’s forgetting.

\---

 

When Haru gets called in for a his first Friday shift, Rin is absolutely livid.

“Do you know how long it took me to get off of Tuesday shifts, Haru?” Haru doesn’t know.

“Three fucking months, okay? Three months. It’s been three goddamn weeks for you,

and they’re already pulling you in for weekends. What the fUCK, I get that you’re pretty or some shit, but come ON.” Haru has no idea what any of this means, what the difference between a Tuesday shift and a Friday shift is, and why Rin looks like he’s going to punt him into the fucking sun.

“Come on, you piece of shit, we’re gonna be late.” Rin shoves past him, grabs his keys from the kitchen counter, and slams the door behind him.

Every day, Haru realizes he understands less and less.

 

“Yo! Haruka!” Haru raises a brow, because knows when Sasabe greets him with his name instead of “kitten” it means something good for Sasabe at Haru’s expense.

“I’ve got great news for you kid!” Good news, Haru has come to learn, probably means something along the lines of “I got you a new costume, complete with cat ears!” or “I got a great deal on new spandex shorts in your size!” Haru tries to contain his excitement.

“I’ve got your numbers from your first few weeks here…” Haru doesn’t know what “numbers” he’s magically conjured up, all he’s done is put on uncomfortably impractical outfits, peel himself out of them for a live studio audience, and slide up and down a pole in a way that some people might consider seductive.

“...and you know, we usually don’t let newbies work Fridays….”

“So I’ve heard from Rin.” Sasabe laughs at this, like it’s the most hilarious thing he’s heard all night, which, with this kind of environment, Haru knows is definitely not true.

“RinRin’s already all hung up, huh? Well, between you and me, it took him a helluva long time for him to get comfortable up there. He’s great now, one of my best, but it took him a shit ton of work, I’ll tell you that.” Sasabe’s smile shifts from humorous to fond, and it reminds Haru of a proud father.

“But you, you’re a little different.”

“So I have also heard from Rin.” Sasabe doesn’t laugh this time, and Haru thinks his sense of humor’s been lost again.

“Listen, they like you out there. You’ve got a good look to you, all sultry and mysterious, they eat it up like a kid eats cake. And they way you work that pole, kiddo, it’s.” Sasabe shakes his head. “It’s something else.”

Haru blinks. He stares straight at Sasabe, gaze unwavering. He has zero idea of where this conversation is heading, and Haru’s got about fifteen minutes left before he has to change, so the point better make itself clear soon. Sasabe sighs and crosses his arms over his chest.

“You need things spelled out for you, don’t you?”

“Yes.” Haru likes it when things are clear, no misunderstandings or minced words.

“What I’m saying is. You’re good. More than good. People want you, kitten. And I’m ready to let them have it, but are you willing to give?” Haru stops. He’s back to staring, and probably to anyone, Sasabe included, there isn’t anything noticeably different about the way Haru’s staring now. But, it’s there, that little bit of fear making his eyes widen just a little bit, making his fingers tighten in the palms of his hands. The way his toes curl in his worn-out sneakers at the word “wanted”,  making his skin crawl like the entire world is watching.

“...give what?” Haru’s drawing his brows together, he can feel the creases forming on his forehead.

“...you DO know how a strip club works, right?” Haru doesn’t say anything, because, to be honest, he doesn’t really.

“You know...like. Private? One on one?” Haru blinks. Sasabe puts his face in his hands and groans.

“You are so lucky you’re pretty and a natural, because Rin was completely right.” Haru would be offended, but he really doesn’t have the time to be right now.

“Lap dances. Private lap dances. Is that clear enough?” It is, and Haru’s turning his head, looking off towards the stage.

“Only Free.” It’s a safe thing to say, what Haru’s fallen back on for his entire life. Only Free, only for himself, he’s the one making the decisions this time.

“Excuse me?”

“I’ll only strip Free.”

Somewhere, in the depths of the dressing room, Rin is howling.

 

It takes about twenty minutes of explaining, with Rin’s insistence on butting in to laugh about “oh my gOD Haru I can’t BELIEVE you’re still using that shitty-ass catch phrase this is UNBELIEVABLE” for Sasabe to understand what the fuck Haru means by “I’ll only strip Free.”

Rin’s wrapping an arm around Haru’s shoulder. Tonight’s theme is  Fun in the Sun! and Rin’s dressed as a lifeguard, complete with a cheesy spray tan and a life preserver ring. Haru’s been forced into a red women’s one piece, because he was the only person in the entire club with even a remote willingness to wear it. He didn’t even need to be forced, Haru feels comfortable with the familiar slick fabric clinging to his skin.

“Sasabe, let me translate for you, since this loser is fucking useless and only speaks in swimming metaphors and various blinking patterns. What he’s saying is, he’ll do it, but the way he wants it. Haru has like, authority issues, he hates being told what to do.” Haru looks away again, because Rin’s wrong, he doesn’t have authority issues, just-

“So like, he’ll choose who his clients, clients won’t choose him…?”

Haru’s nodding, and Rin’s sneering.

“I see, I see.” Sasabe’s rubbing his chin, hands scruffing up against his stubble.    
“Well. That’s your decision, it’s less money for you. We can work with it though, we can definitely work with it.” Haru tunes out when Sasabe starts running off various catching headlines like “Mystery boy; will he choose you?” and various other embarrassingly cheesy captions.

“Well, either way, it’s good to have you on board, Haruka. Welcome to the regular team.”

And as Haru’s walking towards the stage, flip flops smacking against the tiles, he thinks about the word “team”, and realizes, the stage isn’t any different from the starting block at all.

* * *

“MAKO-CHAN, NO! You CANNOT bail on me now! You owe me!”

Makoto lays back on his bed, trying to recall any moment in which he would owe Nagisa anything.

“Nagisa...I know it’s your birthday but...don’t you think this is a little…” He trails off, trying to find the most pleasant way to say “absurd”. “A little...overboard?”

“I’m 18 years old, Mako-chan!!! And I’ve been spending 18 years being responsible! I DESERVE to go overboard! Do you not think my 18th birthday is important??? I thought you were my FRIEND, Mako-chan!”  

Calling Nagisa responsible is an intense stretch, and Makoto is sure Nagisa is always going overboard.

“W-well, of course your 18th birthday is important! Just- I. There are other things we can do? That isn’t, you know...that?”

“Sky diving, then!” Makoto feels himself pale.

“U-uh. No. Not that.”

“FRIEND TATTOOS THEN. Cute matching tramp stamps!” Makoto wants to cry.

He agrees, eventually, to take Nagisa to his first ever strip club for his 18th birthday.

After several minutes of THANK YOU MAKO-CHAN THANK YOU THANK YOU, Makoto realizes he’s failed to mention that it will also his first time at a strip club. He hangs up the phone and tosses it onto his bed side table. He’s pulling his glasses off his face when he hears his bedroom door creak.

“Makoto? Feeling alright?” Makoto’s mother asks, and he realizes he’s pinching the bridge of his nose, brow furrowed and eyes squeezed shut.

“Yeah, I’m fine. Sorry, mom. Nagisa just called and is planning his birthday party tonight.”

"Ah, right! He's turning, what? 13?"

Makoto doesn't feel the need to correct his mother, because honestly, she's not wrong.

"You two have fun then!"

She's closing the door quietly, and Makoto's left to stare at the glow-in-the-dark stars stuck to his ceiling. 19 years old, stuck at home, and just the slightest bit anxious, Makoto's contemplating his life choices on the same bed he'd slept on all the way from middle school, through high school, and into college.

His phone buzzes, deafening and grating against the wood of his bedside table. It's a text from Nagisa, which reads:

_"wear something cute!!!! flaunt it, mako-tan! (((o(*ﾟ▽ﾟ*)o)))"_

Makoto turns over into his pillow and groans.

In the back of his mind, he's wondering how much tattoos hurt, and if the physical pain would be less than the emotionally taxing pain that is his current situation.

 

Makoto's definitely regretting not going with the tattoos idea when he meets up with Nagisa in front of the club. _SPLASH FREE!_ blinks at him in neon lettering, all rainbow and visually overstimulating. He feels the need to shield his eyes as the bright blue neon dolphin flashes rapidly.

And then he looks down at Nagisa, and he's tempted to look back at the sign, because somehow that is less blinding. He's not even sure where Nagisa had managed to find so much neon in such a short notice. Either that, or he's ALWAYS had this much neon.

"Mako-chan, you really came!!!"

"Of course I did, it's your birthday, isn't it?" Makoto doesn't need to let Nagisa know he almost, almost, tripped down the stairs accidentally on his way out of his house. A shame that would be, broken bones and all.

Nagisa twirls, actually twirls, and becomes a blur of yellow, cyan, and pink.

"And you LISTENED! You look cute! Super cute!" Nagisa puts a hand under his chin, eyes narrowing critically. He gestures with his free hand like "turn around" so Makoto does, awkwardly. A high pitched whistle rings, and Makoto isn't sure if he'd be more humiliated if it were a stranger instead of Nagisa.

"Please stop, Nagisa, people are staring!" Makoto crouches down and places his hands on Nagisa’s shoulders to steer him towards the club line. It's starting to snake around the side of the building, patrons ranging from men in their early twenties, older men in business suits, and large groups of giddy women.

It comes to Makoto’s attention that they are probably two of the youngest people in the crowd, and he’s suddenly even more consciously aware of himself than usual.

“Nagisa, why is it so crowded? What kind of club is this?”

“The gay kind?” Makoto fails to see how this is actually an answer to his question. Nagisa stands on his toes and leans to one side, attempting to catch a glimpse of the front of the line.

“Okay, but why this one?”

“I do a lot of research on these kinds of things, Mako-chan.” Makoto blinks and thinks about all the times he’s seen Nagisa intently focused on his computer, all the times he’d thought Nagisa was actually doing his homework for once, and those hopeful beliefs come crashing into the floor because what kind of false expectations was he upholding here.

“And I heard that recently, this one just got a new dancer and that he’s g o r g e o u s. Like actually gorgeous, totally-not-real-like-from-a-wet-dream gorgeous.” Nagisa’s clasping his hands together, magenta eyes blown wide like saucers.

“But get this! He’s like, an urban legend or something, because he picks the people he wants to dance for??? He doesn’t take private requests??? So everyone’s here trying to claim that they got an infamous private dance from…” Nagisa raises his hands above his head, sweeping his arms out in a grandiose gesture, almost knocking out the girl in front of them.

“Mysterious Boy!”

Makoto’s first thought is he feels kind of bad for whoever this “mysterious boy” is because that alias is terrible.

They must be getting closer to the entrance of the club, since Makoto can feel the thumping of the bass through the walls, can smell the scent of smoke mixed with stale alcohol mixed with the odor of overbearing perfumes all wafting together into one putrid cloud. The bouncer looks at Nagisa with a quirked eyebrow that says something like “you look about 12 years old”, but Nagisa flashes his ID like a grade schooler showing off a perfect score from a vocabulary test.

Once they’re inside, Makoto has to resist the urge to yell “Please don’t run indoors, Nagisa!” when the blond ball of highlighter neons lets out an exuberant cry and dashes off into the center of the dance floor.

When Makoto’s collected his bearings, manages to make sense of the flashing lights and bright colors, he notices that the club is relatively small. The focal point is the main stage, obviously, round with a single set of stairs that disappears behind a curtain. Tables line the edge of the club, a few raised platforms with poles dispersed sparingly. There’s a few dancers, none of which catch Makoto’s attention, as they grind up and down the poles for the audience. The bar is long and extensive, and is where most of the current patrons of the club have ended up.

Nagisa, however, is one of the few lone individuals on the open dance floor surrounding the stage. In line, Nagisa had insisted that he would in fact drop it like its hot, regardless of how many or few people were there to do it with him.

If Makoto were any other person, he would have left by now, gotten a drink, and pretended to not know Nagisa when anyone asked “who’s that boy in pink dropping his ass to the floor?”.

The problem is, 1) Makoto isn’t any other person and 2)Makoto can’t even fathom the idea of underaged alcohol consumption, so even the option of drinking himself into believing he were any other person isn’t an option.

“MA-KO-CHA-N~!” It’s like the cry of a newborn infant, ringing across an entire room to its mother’s ear. Makoto checks his watch and realizes they’ve been here for an outstanding total of exactly 27 minutes.

“Yeah, yeah, I’m coming!” Makoto crosses the club back to the dance floor, two overpriced bottles of water in hand. He hands one to Nagisa, and Nagisa looks back at it like its offended him.

“What is this?”

“...uh? Water?”

Nagisa’s eyes narrow dangerously, and Makoto swallows because what could he have possibly done wrong this time?

“Mako-chan....it’s my birthday….and you’re giving me water….to drink?”

“Uh...yes?” Nagisa lets out a clearly rehearsed dramatic sigh, shakes his head like “what ever am I going to do with you?” and crosses the dance floor to the bar. Makoto’s alone again with nothing but his rejected water for company.

When Nagisa returns, it’s with a cocktail glass filled with an obscenely pink liquid, and a dark brown bottle that Makoto assumes is probably not root beer.

“Here! I’ll treat you!” Nagisa thrusts the bottle out and Makoto regards it like he’d regard a sick child.

“...it’s your birthday though, isn’t it?”

“Well, duh! I put both the drinks on your tab!”

“...that’s not really treating me to anything…” Nagisa’s clearly not listening at this point, nearly drops the bottle straight to the floor before Makoto has to catch it, and is now officially stuck with it for the rest of the night.

“...How did you get these anyways?” Makoto asks warily, and immediately after he says it, he’s sure he’ll regret whatever answer Nagisa gives him.

“Oh, Mako-chan, you learn ways to get the things you want.” Nagisa’s almost sneering, and Makoto contemplates his current situation in regards to that statement. “The bartender, he was a real easy one to smooth talk. I just told him his drinks were beautiful, and how perfect his ratios were, and he didn’t even ask me for my ID!” Nagisa sips on his daiquiri, complete with a paper umbrella and a plastic monkey hanging off the side.

“He even made my cup cute because it’s my birthday!”

“...That’s. Really nice. Very cute.” is all Makoto can think to say because one, he promised Nagisa’s mother he’d make sure Nagisa wouldn’t get in trouble tonight, and he’s 100% sure that flirting with a bartender until he illegally serves you alcohol constitutes as getting in trouble.

But the lights are already starting to dim, and Nagisa’s jumping and hooting and shoving his way to the front of the stage. Makoto’s stuck with a beer he’s somehow, in the intermittence of Nagisa explaining exactly how he acquired drinks while looking roughly 12 years old, consumed about half of. And because of all this, when Makoto looks at the stage and hears the click-clack-click of sharp heels against tile, Makoto somehow knows it won’t be Nagisa getting in trouble tonight.

A set of boney fingers wraps around Makoto’s wrist like a vice, pulling him with about twice as much strength as someone Nagisa’s size should ever have. He’s having whiplash when Nagisa lets go, head reeling from the flashing lights and excessive heat.

“Mako-chan, it’s him, it’s him!” Makoto’s vaguely aware that both his hands are empty, he was sure he had been holding a bottle earlier. But he’s too distracted, following Nagisa’s pointed finger to the far end of the stage.

Makoto’s not sure what to take in first; the, shiny leather boots connected to long, slender legs, all rounded off in pristine white shorts hugging slim hips, or the way the tight, white fabric of what Makoto assumes is a Marines uniform hugs every angle of his body, from the sharp curve of his shoulder to the dip of his waist.

There’s a bottle in his hand again, and it feels a little heavier than earlier, but Makoto is suddenly very, very thirsty, so he considers it convenient. He tips his head back and drinks, fast. Because all he wants is to look back at the stage again, look back at that mysterious boy that everyone is here to see.

It’s his face that gets him. It’s a little hard to see, shadow casted from the brim of his hat. But, when he gets to the edge of the stage and rolls his head back, it’s there, even if just for a second. Sharp chin, delicate lips, small pointy nose. That’s all good and well, Makoto appreciates, but what makes his heart maybe skip a beat, what makes his throat clench just the tiniest bit, are sapphires eyes cut like gemstones, all hard and faceted but sparkling just under the right light.

Maybe it’s the heat, maybe it’s the lights, maybe it’s the fact that Makoto is probably a little drunk and very, very emotional, but all he can think of is i _s his hair soft? are his hands warm or cold? what does his voice sound like?_

Hips roll against metal, and layers are coming off, starting with one button pop and suddenly the jacket is gone. Makoto gets an eyeful of sharp, jutting hipbones peaking out of the edge of tiny white shorts. He wonders what they’d feel like, thumbs pressed in the crevice.

But most of all, what Makoto wonders as thighs wrap around the pole, what would he look like smiling?

* * *

Haru’s least favorite thing about this job is the eyes. He can feel each individual stare, boring past his skin, past himself, and into his bones. He makes it a point to never, ever look at anyone while he does this. Because looking at anyone makes this about them, makes this him doing something for someone else, and literally fuck that.

So when he gets to the edge of the stage, flicks his head up once just to see where he’s at for his audience tonight, it nearly floors him to see one pair of eyes glowing amongst a sea of grey.

At first, it’s unnerving, and it makes Haru want to turn his head and walk away. They’re green and dewy around the edges, like freshly cut grass after a cold morning. Haru lets himself look for about half a second before he thinks no, don’t, and comes back to himself and only himself.

He pops the button on his jacket, first slow, then gives up with the whole “patience is key, kitten, give them something to anticipate” and practically rips the constricting fabric off, sweat dripping from his neck down his collar bones.

There’s some hooting coming from the same general direction as the pair of green eyes, and Haru almost uses it as an excuse to look again. He doesn’t, because his self restraint is better than that, and goes to grip the pole in both hands, back arced all perfect and feline. He pulls himself up, blessing the strength of his triceps, until his thighs wrap around the pole, body shaped like a perfect crescent moon.

Dropping his hands, Haru folds himself back up, grasping the pole above his knees and sliding up. Hooking a knee around the back of the poll, Haru spins, lets his head fall back, chances a glance.

It’s a mistake, Haru realizes, a huge mistake, when the eyes are still there. And it’s more than just eyes this time, it’s an entire face. An entire look. The way his face lights up, all attentive and captive, it makes Haru feel-

Feel what?

Haru doesn’t know. It just feels different, looks different, but he doesn’t understand.

Maybe it’s just the blood rushing to Haru’s head as he unclenches his thighs and drops a good foot down the poll and plants his hands down on the ground. He pushes off into a handstand, then back to his feet. He’s facing away from the audience this time, because it’s safer this way, back turned. He rolls his hips against the pole, dropping lower, lower, lower, until he feels stray hands brushing against his ass.

A vague, jarring thought crosses Haru’s mind about how he wouldn’t mind if they were-

No. He hasn’t even had anything to drink (yet) and this is where he’s ended up.

Haru’s done for the night, he thinks. He’ll walk off stage, behind the curtain, and that’ll be that. Like any other normal night. Maybe finagle Rei into giving him a drink, just one because it’s been a long night.  

But that plan is immediately swept out from under his feet when he turns around again because stupid, stupid. They’re still there, those eyes that he can feel not through him, but looking into him, prying him apart layer by layer, and it’s.

Maybe it’s just him, but this one, this one looks about as self-conscious as Haru feels. And maybe that’s why he does it, why he crawls off the stage, takes his hand, and pulls. Haru can’t miss that look, and he wants to call it admiration. It’s different, and maybe, that’s not so bad after all.

* * *

The club has a unanimous heart attack when he steps down from the stage, onto the floor, takes Makoto’s hand and gives it a tug. But, while everyone else’s heart skips one beat, Makoto’s skips two; long delicate fingers burning holes into his skin. It’s not real, he’s not real, he’s like Nagisa said, like something a quality wet dream would conjure up just to wake you up right at the best part to remind you you’re alone and live with your parents.

But he’s right there, all blue and black and milky skin, and it reminds Makoto of the ocean on a clear summer night, foam cresting on the tips of the waves. Thin lips part and Makoto wants to run his thumb right over them, right into-

“MAKO-CHAN.”

Right into Nagisa’s face.

“What?” Nagisa’s taking his bottle again, and Makoto wonders exactly how long he’s been drinking the same beer. Nagisa’s mouth is open so wide, Makoto could probably fit his fist in comfortably with extra room.

“MAKOTO TACHIBANA.”

“...yes?” And then Nagisa’s gripping at his shirt collar, pulling all 183cm of Makoto down to his height.

“Mako-chan this iS A VERY IMPORTANT MOMENT FOR ME.” Nagisa is shaking him, rattling Makoto’s brain around in his skull.

“What???” Nagisa points behind the stage to the curtain.

“You are going to be a PART OF HISTORY, MAKO-CHAN.” Makoto must still look blank, because Nagisa is inching closer to his face, spit splattering across his nose as the blond shouts, “DO NOT LOSE THIS OPPORTUNITY FOR ME. You are going BACK THERE and gETTING THIS LAP DANCE if it kILLS YOU OR ME.”

And then Makoto puts two and two together. Nagisa’s yelling, the way every single person in the club is staring at him like he has something that they don’t, and the burning sensation on his wrist that still hasn’t gone away.

Makoto’s thirsty again, but this time, there’s no bottle to quench him.

He’s a little drunk, very impressionable, and has a distinct inability to say no to people, especially Nagisa.

“Okay.” He tries to not look excited, and tries even harder to not look completely and utterly horrified out of his mind.

Nagisa practically glows, like a neon fluorescent, and Makoto’s being tugged along, past the stage, into the curtain, and they’re greeted by an unfortunate haircut and dye job.

“...Can I help you?” is what they get, and Makoto’s tongue tied.

“My friend!” Nagisa interjects. “He’s here for...um...ah…?” They’re gonna get kicked out, Makoto thinks, and Nagisa will never forgive him.

“He’s for me.” And Makoto’s entire thought process shuts down, because wow.

“...you serious, kitten?” A sigh, and Makoto’s trying very, very hard not to stare.

“Don’t call me kitten. But yeah.” Now everyone’s staring, so Makoto feels like he can get away with looking, even if it’s just for a little bit.

“...you’re sure about this, Haruka?” Haruka. Haruka. Makoto parts his lips and says it silently to himself. Haruka. Ha-ru-ka. He likes the way it falls off his tongue, thinks it’s pretty, the perfect name for-

“Yeah.”

“...no one put you up to this?”

“No.”

“...and the blond one?”

“Just the one with green eyes.”

Nagisa lets out a loud “gaaawwww” sound, arms and shoulders falling.

“But Haru-chan, it’s my BIRTHDAY!” Makoto clasps his hands over Nagisa’s mouth because oh my god embarrassing. He can practically see Haruka prickling, eyes narrowing just a little.

“...Haru-chan?”

“I’m sorry! He calls everyone -chan, it’s just how he is! I’m so so sorry!” Now it’s everyone else’s turn to stare at Makoto, and no amount of alcohol can curb the level of self consciousness he feels in this given moment.

“...cute pick, kitten.” Makoto flushes and drops Nagisa from his arms. “Well. Uh. I’m not sure how we’re gonna do this since...this isn’t really a normal thing....” The blond man looks at Haruka, arms raised in a shrug like “what do yo want”?

“I can use your office.”

“Now THAT sounds suspicious and potentially dangerous. No doors, I’m like your daddy here, and I dunno how I feel about this kid.” 

“Don’t ever use ‘daddy’ in reference to yourself ever again.”

Makoto is completely lost, but he feels like he’s being offended somewhere.

“But fine. Right here. Behind the curtain.” Bad haircut puts his hand on his chin, and lets out a hum.

“...fine. But if I get bad vibes I’m sending RinRin right back here to check on you.”

“Fine.”

And then, Nagisa’s being dragged away with a “come on blondie, it’s your birthday right? Go get yourself a free drink or something.” and it’s just him and Haruka standing behind the curtain.

Haruka walks away without warning, and Makoto thinks he’s fucked something up already. But he’s back immediately, a chair dragging behind him.

It occurs to Makoto right then, right there, exactly what is happening, and he feels his stomach drop to the floor.

He’s nervous, beyond nervous, actually feels about ready to crawl under the tiles and die there.

“Hey.” And then he remembers how soft Haruka’s voice is, like velvet, and it simultaneously keeps him from running away and driving him insane.

Makoto looks at Haruka, and Haruka looks back, head tilted to one side. His eyelids flutter, thick sooty lashes fluttering over twinkling sapphire.

“H-hi.”

“Don’t be nervous.” Haruka says it like a command. “You don’t have to do anything. Just. Sit”  So Makoto does. He sits, arms stiff by his side because, even though he’s an inexperienced stay-at-home virgin, of course he knows the number one rule about lap dances.

“Relax. It’s fine.” _Relax, relax, relax._ Okay. He can do that, sure.

Makoto’s eyes fix on Haruka’s hips, swaying back and forth to the beat of the music that’s become background noise at this point. He’s got his jacket back on, buttoned all the way up to his neck, but the milkyness of Haruka’s skin is imprinted on the front of his mind.

“What’s your name?” Haruka asks, finger trailing over the line of Makoto’s jaw.

“M-makoto…” Haruka tilts his head again, and there’s a little flit of what Makoto thinks is amusement in his eyes.

“Makoto…” Haruka says, slow and testing. Makoto watches each movement of his lips, the way they form perfect and round over the “o”. It’s mesmerizing, Haruka’s mesmerizing.

“Girl’s name. Just like me.” The finger drags down from Makoto’s jaw to his neck, circles his collar bone, before drawing back to pop the first button on his jacket.

“Yeah?” Makoto laughs a little, nervousness shaking his voice just a bit. “I used to get made fun of for it a lot, I guess you understand, huh?” Are you supposed to talk to your stripper? Makoto should have probably asked Nagisa that beforehand.

Haruka hums, and Makoto takes it as a yes. More jacket buttons pop and Haruka turns around, all slow and in the roll of his hips. Makoto takes in Haruka from behind before he loses his chance and nerve. The jacket slides down, milky shoulders bleeding into the sharp angles of muscle-toned arms. Makoto follows the knobs of Haruka’s spine, follows the dips of his waist down to the curve of his ass, framed all nice and perfect in white denim.

“Having fun yet?” Makoto’s head snaps back up, dewy green meeting hard, faceted sapphire. He nods, slow and careful.

“Good.” Haruka’s lowering himself down, spine curving into a pretty little arc, and Makoto wishes he could trace the dip with his finger. He feels his ass press into his knees, and Makoto has to bite his tongue because dear lord.

“Have you ever done this before?” Haruka asks, head still turned back.

“No..um. This is. Ah- my first. Lap dance?”  Makoto responds, probably too quickly. He doesn’t feel the need to mention it’s his first anything.

“That’s two of us then.” And Makoto almost chokes on nothing, has his eyes almost fall out of his head. A vague expression passes on Haruka’s face, something akin to realization. He raises a finger to his lip as Haruka slides back more, ass flush against Makoto’s lap.

“Oh. That’s a secret though.” Hips roll in slow, tight circles and Makoto is so fucking embarrassed, because he knows that Haruka can feel how hard he is, all pressed up against the cleft of his ass like that.

He has to bite his lip to keep from making any noises, almost bites right through it.

But then Haruka lets out this little sigh, all light and airy and Makoto nearly loses it.

“Should I take these off?” Haruka’s fingers are threading through the belt loops of his shorts, twiddling the fabric between his forefinger and thumb.

“Ah-I. Uh.” is Makoto’s coherent response. Haruka’s still grinding down directly onto Makoto’s painfully hard cock.

“I mean-uhm. If you, uh, want...to?” He finally manages.

And then Haruka’s standing, and Makoto can’t help a groan at the loss of pressure and warmth.

“Do you want me to?” Haruka’s finger the button of his shorts, like he’s waiting for Makoto’s permission. He’s looking down, dark pupils ringed in a thin sliver of sapphire. Does he want him to? God, yeah, he wants him to. But Makoto’s hesitating, because what is he doing? Sitting in the back of some strip club, letting his first ever anything experience be from a-

“You think a lot.” That, ironically, stops Makoto’s thinking all together.

“Huh?” There’s a hand on his chin, tilting his face up.

“You make this face. When you think too much.” And Haruka flicks him in the forehead, right between his brows. “Stop thinking.”

It’s an idea that Makoto’s never really entertained. It’s a bit frightening, the idea of not thinking, but for some reason, Makoto somehow feels like with Haruka, it’s okay to not think, even if it’s just for a little bit.

“Okay. Yeah. Yes. I do.” There’s a little flit across Haruka’s lips, a pull just a centimeter up in one corner, and maybe, maybe, Makoto can call it a smile.

* * *

Eyes. Eyes eyes eyes everywhere. Makoto’s all eyes, all soft, gentle green flicking back and forth from here to there, but they always end up in the same place. Back on his face, right on either sides of his nose, right back on his eyes.

And that’s what keeps Haru going, how this is the first time he’s ever been looked at this way, and how refreshing that is, how foreign it is, and how it makes him think and do the most stupid things.

The button of his shorts slips between his fingers, and he hopes Makoto can’t tell how his hands are trembling, how this entire thing is based on instinct and he really really really is the notorious virgin of the seven seas.

The zipper comes next, the sound of the teeth running almost deafening to Haru’s ears. There’s some threshold he’s crossing here by taking off his shorts. He never strips off his bottoms, ever, so the fact that he’s doing it now is-

Well. He can figure it out later, Haru thinks, as he lets the shorts fall to his ankles and steps out of them, careful to not catch his heels on the fabric.

He catches Makoto looking- no, staring,- down. It’s to be expected, he guesses, with the delicate red lace that he actually kind of hates. He’s not a fan of the color red, too jarring and violent for his preferred aesthetic.

“Up here.” And his eyes are back, looking a little bit guilty, which is honestly kind of cute, or something.

“Red? That doesn’t...I mean-”

“Not my choice.” And Makoto nods, like that made sense to him somehow.

Haru inches forward again, arms on either of Makoto’s shoulders. He lowers down, slow, easy, remembers what Sasabe says about rushing into things. For once, he’s listening, because also for once, maybe he doesn’t want it to be over so quickly.

Haru feels himself go half-lidded, not-so-secret hard-on pressed up in between his legs. He feels himself wanting to open up for Makoto, wanting to shed that layer between them, and that’s bad, that’s awful, Haruka Nanase do not think things like that.

He presses his chest forward until he can practically feel Makoto’s breaths on the hollow of his neck. It makes his skin crawl, and he wonders who exactly is supposed to be in charge of this entire show.

And then, Makoto lets out this strangled noise, tilts his head back, eyes scrunched up all tight, all his concentration and might put into restraining himself. Something in Haru wants to see that resolve crack, wants to feel what that feels like, but mostly, just wants to get Makoto to look at him again, see how those eyes will look at him if he could just-

Fuck it.

Actually fuck it.

Free, right?

“Touch me.”

That does it.

Makoto nearly jolts out of his chair, eyes snapping open, all shocked and maybe just the slightest bit horrified.

“You want to, right?” Is Haru’s way of saying _I want you to._

“B-but I-”

“It’s fine.” Meaning _do it._

“Ha-haruka, but-” A shiver crawls its way up Haru’s spine, hearing his name like that, filled with restraint and concern, it’s so different. Haru’s impatient. He gives up, grabs Makoto’s wrists and places them on his hips, right over the jut of his hip bones.

Makoto gives up too, he guesses, when those rough, calloused fingers tighten around his waist, digging into his skin, leaving dull, crescent shaped indentations. It’s all instinct at this point, Makoto grinding up into his ass, pulling Haru along with him by the tug of his hips.

It’s kind of juvenile, actually, like teenagers dry-humping on the couch at some high school party. But for some reason, maybe it’s the lights, the heat, or the way Makoto feels, it doesn’t seem wrong, for once.

Hands are starting to roam, getting courageous, palms flattening out against his chest, fingers trailing in between his ribs, over his arms and shoulders, down his back, and settling right to cup his ass. Haru curls, back arching instinctively, and he’s 100% sure this was never, ever a lap dance, not even when he took Makoto’s hand earlier in the night and invited him back.

This is branching into dangerous territory, Haru is completely aware when Makoto’s hands start kneading, fingers teasing between the cheeks. A whimper catches in the back of his throat, and they’re definitely beyond lap dance at this point.

And all this time, Makoto hasn’t looked away from his face once. He’s fixated, watching, so sincere in the way he looks, again, like he’s looking into him and not through him.

Haru can’t really think more on it, because hands are tightening almost painfully, and Makoto’s sputtering.

“Haru- no, I-” He looks almost pleading, like he isn’t sure what to do, and to be honest, Haru isn’t either.

So he stays, grinds down harder, rocking his hips back and forth until Makoto’s head’s tilted back, long throaty groan drowned out by the sound of the club music that has definitely become background noise. Haru feels dampness spreading out beneath him, and instead of thinking wow I just fucked up so bad, he feels strangely endeared, accomplished, fulfilled.

And then there’s the way Makoto’s looking back at him, green eyes hazed over, drowsy, and Haru’s overcome with the sudden desire to-

“Oh. Oh. OH. Oh god. God what. What just?” Eyes widen, panic spreading across Makoto’s face. Eyebrows turn down, mouth hangs open, and Haru starts to feel the fucking up part.

“I am so sorry so sorry wow I am so so so sorry god please I’m sorry.” Makoto’s flailing at this point, so Haru stands, arms falling to his sides as Makoto frets and waves his hands in front of him apologetically.

“I didn’t mean- it just. God embarrassing I’m sorry I’m sorry it’s my fault god I hope you don’t get in trouble did I hurt you are you okay?” Haru just tilts his head, because he doesn’t know what to do in this kind of situation.

“It’s fine.” Meaning I did it on purpose.

Makoto’s unbuttoning his flannel and tying it around his waist, and Haru gives himself roughly 2 seconds to appreciate the development of Makoto’s biceps and the broadness of his shoulders.

“I’ll leave, I’m so sorry again but also thank you? I mean I don’t want to offend you it was- I. God, nevermind. I’m so sorry.” Makoto’s scratching the back of his head, now looking anywhere but Haru, and that makes him frown.

“I! Bye now!” He runs out, past the curtain, and those green eyes disappear into a sea of grey. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> decide what haru's gonna wear next time by dropping me a line at either kasuutan.tumblr.com or @kasuutan on twitter


	3. the view from the afternoon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> rin teaches us about love and haru doesn't listen. feat. dreams no one asked for but aren't necessarily uncalled for

He’s more eager than he imagined, perched up on Makoto’s hips like he belongs there. There are firm palms pressed flat against his chest, keeping him pinned down to the bed. The second thing Makoto realizes is he’s a lot stronger than he expected from such a slender, delicate-

“Hey.”

He says it like he’s caught Makoto thinking something unsavory, and then a hand is trailing down Makoto’s stomach, across his navel, fingers soft and light.

Dark blue eyes and thin, pretty lips are leaning in, and Makoto can feel shallow breaths dancing across the hollow of his throat.

“What do you want to do to me?” he whispers into Makoto’s jawline, open mouth kisses trailing across the bone. Makoto whimpers because what does he want to do? More like what doesn’t he want to do.

He shifts, hips lifting and slotting their cocks right up against each other and the friction burns Makoto right from his toes up to the roots of his hair.

There’s little moans filling his ear, high and breathy and strangled.

“Makoto…” His breath is hot, intoxicating, and his tongue is wet and curling around the shell of his ear. Makoto groans, choked up, flushed, bothered.

“Ah, Ha-”

“Mako-chan,” is whispered in his ear, but the breath isn’t hot, and it smells a little like artificial sweetener.

“...what?”

“WAKE UP!”

 

And his sheets are gone, thrown down to the foot of the bed and Makoto squeaks, squeaks as much as a 183cm 19 year old boy can squeak. He flails and rolls flat onto his stomach, still-half hard dick pressing into the mattress. He cringes both at the discomfort and at Nagisa’s perfectly awful timing.

“What’s up with you? It’s half past one and you’re still not up?” Nagisa’s jumping up onto the bed, knees sinking into the mattress three inches away from Makoto’s hips.

“Nagisaaa….” Makoto groans into the bed, pulling his pillow over his head. “How did you get in here? My parents are at work and the twins are at school…” Nagisa laughs, a laugh that says “oh Mako-chan, you’re so silly!”

“I broke in!” he says with almost pride, and Makoto’s not sure if it’s worth the effort to tell him that breaking into your best friend’s house is not something to be bragged about.

“And why…?”

“No reason, you haven’t been responding to a n y of my texts since my birthday and that was a full three days ago! Super rude, Mako-chan!” Nagisa’s kicking his legs out, laying out next to Makoto on his back. “I’m just checking up on you, like a good friend. Because clearly-” he feels a slap against the small of his back, and it makes Makoto grunt. “-something is bothering you, and I absolutely positively have to know what it is. For contractual friendship agreement reasons.”

“And how do you know that something is bothering me, exactly?” Makoto flips over to his back again, awkward boner crisis avoided. Nagisa spreads his arms out, nearly punching Makoto in the face.

“You’ve been sleeping too much!”

“And what time exactly did you get up?” Nagisa looks over to Makoto’s alarm clock.

“About 20 minutes ago.” Nagisa flips onto his side, propping up his head in the palm of his hand. “But that’s early for me, so commend my efforts by telling me what’s going on in Mako-land.” Nagisa starts prodding Makoto’s sides with the tips of his fingers, incessant and impossible to disregard.

“Nothing is happening, I’m just tired.” Makoto tries, but Makoto knows he’s an awful liar, and Nagisa is stupendous and separating truth from fib.

“You’re in love with the stripper.” Nagisa says it so plainly, so obviously, that it makes Makoto blush, and then sputter out denials and counters.

“No! Absolutely not! Definitely not!” And he’s not lying either, because no, he’s not in love with the stripper- Haruka, he tells himself, he has a name- because that would be beyond stupid. He's just-

“Then why have you been locked up in your room for the past three days, and why are there three sets of sheets in your laundry basket, and why are you crossing your legs all awkwardly like-” Makoto places one of his hands over Nagisa’s mouth, and runs the other through his hair. It settles over his face and he groans, long and frustrated, not necessarily at Nagisa, because he’s right, first of all, but more so at himself because why.

Nagisa’s patting his shoulder, and Makoto feels like he’s being pitied.

“It’s okay Mako-chan! Nothing to be embarrassed about, I mean, did you look at Haru-chan? Anyone’d be having inappropriate thoughts 24/7 if they’d gotten what you’d gotten that night. It’s not like I was thinking about his legs for a good portion of the night, oh no no no no.” Nagisa’s shaking his head, then looks up to the ceiling a little lost in thought. Makoto sighs.

“It’d be fine if it were just…you know, that. But it’s. Not?” Nagisa snaps his head back, eyes keyed in like he’s found something incredibly relevant to his interest. His eyebrows disappear beneath his unkempt blond hair as if to say “go on”.

Makoto sits up and crosses his legs, picking at the fuzz balls pilled on the fabric of his sheets.

“It’s like. Yeah okay, there’s the normal stuff like. Dreams. And stuff.” Makoto wants to crawl back under his sheets and sleep for another four hours, but Nagisa looks so transfixed that there is no backing out now.

“But I. It’s even more embarrassing than that because sometimes I’ll wonder things like _‘Oh, I wonder what he does in his free time. What’s his favorite color? What kind of movies does he like? Is his hair soft and is he ticklish?_ ’ and then I think _wow_ that’s really not normal to feel about some stripper that-“ and Makoto cuts himself off because he can be even more self-incriminating. He has the strong desire to bury his face behind his hands, but Nagisa’s eyes are all wide and frighteningly fucsia, he can’t even bring himself to look away.

“That. Is easily the gayest thing I’ve ever heard, Mako-chan.”

“That’s not helpful, Nagisa!” Makoto whines, hands fisting in the sheets.

“That’s because I can’t help you, hon. You’re the ONLY person I know that would become emotionally attached to someone who gave you a lap dance.” Nagisa pats Makoto’s head, ruffling the sandy locks between his fingers. “You’re so sweet, you know. Maybe a little-” Nagisa shakes his head. “Stay this way forever.”

Makoto’s not sure what this means, at all, but Nagisa’s kicking his legs over the side of his bed and jumping to his feet.

“But what do I do?” Makoto practically begs because he needs an answer and frankly he doesn’t have one. Nagisa just shrugs, locking his hands behind his back.

“Just do what feels right. Has anyone told you you think too much sometimes?”

Makoto almost says yes.

 

* * *

The first thing that comes to Haru’s mind is; he did not sign up for this when he moved to Tokyo. The floor is hard on his knees but Haru can’t find it in himself to be uncomfortable. Fingers thread through his hair, tugging Haru closer, closer, until he can feel shared body heat flushing up his cheeks.

Haru’s stupid, so he chances a glance up. Hard shadows cast across strong features, firm jawline jutted out like he’s expecting something. A hand comes down to cup Haru’s chin, pads of his fingers pressing firmly against his lips. Haru’s feeling a little bit spiteful, so he turns his head away, tongue darting out to lap at the tips of calloused fingers.

“You’re so stubborn. What are you waiting for, kitten?”

A whimper tears itself from the back of Haru’s throat, unexpected and completely uncalled for. Haru isn’t into pet names, Haru isn’t into anything. But there’s a hand at the back of his head, pushing him further down, until his lips are being split open, jaw straining and mouth aching and-

 

There’s a loud slam from the front of the apartment, followed by a series of thumps and crashes, all rounded off with “FUCK”. It jolts Haru straight up, hair sticking to his forehead with sweat. He presses a hand to his face, lets out a ragged sigh, and contemplates every bad choice he’s ever made in life, starting with letting Rin develop anger management issues when they were both around 11.

Haru kind of just lays there for a bit, staring up at the ceiling and listening to Rin stumble around the apartment. There’s a couple more expletives until Haru hears the roar of the bathroom fan and the ungraceful slamming of a door.

He shifts uncomfortably, still completely and utterly riled up from the thought of- well. It’s a problem, he realizes, a huge fucking problem because first of all, Haru’s made it through life being a virgin by complete and utter choice, and the last thing he should be dreaming about is the poor boy he coerced into a lap dance that definitely broke every rule in his employee handbook.

But, Haru’s decided he’ll worry about that later, because fuck. It’s three in the morning, Rin’s crying in the bathroom, and Haru can’t deal with that until he deals with this.

He tears his pants down to his ankles and kicks them off to the bed, crumpling up on the floor somewhere far off and out of his current thought process. Haru hisses because thank god, the constriction was getting near painful. He wraps one hand around his length, hard and unrelenting. The sooner he can get this done, the faster he can get it out of his system, and the sooner he can reevaluate his life.

That doesn’t stop him from thinking about soft shades of green and strong, broad shoulders. Haru shudders, thinking about what those shoulders would look like pressing up against the backs of his thighs, sandy brown hair peaking out from between his legs.

Haru takes three fingers and presses them into his mouth. He tells himself it’s to keep him quiet, because you know, courtesy to Rin, denies that the stretch of his lips and the weight against his tongue does something to him.

He’s rocking his hips in time to the fingers pumping in and out of his mouth, rough enough to make him gag. He tries to ignore the way that choking makes him keen, makes his toes curl and his back arc right off the bed, cum splattering over the edge of his fist. He comes almost painfully, eyes blown wide and biting down hard on his fingers as he rides it out.

Haru gives himself less than a minute to soak in his shameful high before wiping his hand on his sheets and kicking himself off over the bed. He finds his pajamas crumpled up at the foot of the frame and tugs them over his legs before padding off to the bathroom.

The door’s locked, but he can hear Rin mumbling to himself, voice thick and blubbery. Haru knocks.

“Rin. Let me in.” Haru’s ready to deal with Rin’s problems, far more ready than to deal with his own. He leans his forehead against the door, eyes starting to flicker closed from post-whack drowsiness.

“G’ t’ sleep Haru…” Rin groans, a sound akin to a sob clawing its way out of his throat.

“Open up.” Haru’s ready to fall asleep at the door before he lets Rin stay in the bathroom all night.

“‘m fine!” Haru knows he’s not fine, and he’s getting very, very tired. He wraps his hand around the door knob and jiggles hard, pushes it in, and turns to the left. The lock releases, door flying open and nearly smacking Rin flat.

The red-head’s on the floor, slouched against the wall. Dark circles ring puffy eyes, and Haru can see tell-tale purple-red blotches peaking out from the not-so-modest neckline of Rin’s tank top. Haru crosses the bathroom and runs a washcloth under the sink in cold water. He leans down and wipes the towel across Rin’s face, last week’s eyeliner and mascara crusting off in chunks.

“What happened?” Haru asks, keeping his voice soft and even. Rin’s sensitive when drunk and sad, he’s first-handedly familiar with this. Rin chokes a little bit on his tears this time, and Haru awkwardly wipes them up with the towel.

“Do not.” Rin takes the towel from Haru and wipes his nose. “Ever. Fall in love, Haru.”

“Okay.” Because Haru is 100% sure he can follow this advice.

“No like.” Rin tries to stand but starts to teeter, so Haru pushes him back down to the ground gently. “Seriously just don’t it’s not cool it’s not fun you think it’s all just like fun fucking with no feelings or something but that’s a lie Haru it’s a fucking lie I’m telling you don’t fall in love just don’t do it.” Haru helps Rin to his feet, drapes an arm around his shoulder, and drags him out of the bathroom and back to his bedroom.

Haru sits on the edge of Rin’s bed for a bit while Rin turns to his side and cries into the wall.

“Do you want to talk or should I leave?”

“Don’t wanna talk. But don’t leave.” Haru lets out a sigh that Rin can’t hear, but lays down on Rin’s bed anyways, back to back. This happens a lot, and Haru knows they’re different. Rin hates being alone, needs the physical confirmation that someone’s there to hold him up, and Haru guesses he can do that, even if he doesn’t quite understand.

“Haru.”

“Go to sleep, Rin.”

“Don’t let anyone get so close you think more about them than yourself.”

Haru almost says he won’t.

 

* * *

 

 

It’s been three weeks, and Haru still can’t shake the memory of dewy green and the ghosting touches of warm hands. It’s getting very ridiculous at this point, the amount of dreams his masochistic self conscious has managed to stir up, and the even more masochistic aftermath that is elongated shower sessions, washing the shame and denial all down the drain in spurts.

Haru wants to call The Poor Decision just that, a poor decision that will never, ever happen again. But it refuses to leave him alone, subconsciously and physically. Work keeps reminding him, the way his clientele has practically doubled since The Poor Decision, word of the fabled lap dance spreading like a disease. He’s heard rumors, rumors that he wants to crush under his thumb because there’s nothing Haru hates more than being seen like this.

_“I heard from a friend that he saw them go behind the curtain.”_

_“Oh MAN, so like, it’s not just a “lap dance” right?”_

_“Heard the guy was big, tall, all broad and muscly.”_

_“So he likes them big, huh? What I’d give to see that, damn.”_

And Haru wants to say no, he doesn’t like them big, because he doesn’t know what he likes. He knows what he doesn’t like, and it’s being looked over and not at.

And that brings him straight back to the problem, reminds him of eyes that could look into him and-

He still doesn’t get it. And Haru’s pretty sure he’ll never get the chance to, because it’s been three weeks of hoping, hating himself for hoping, and then hating himself for being disappointed when Makoto doesn’t show up again.

Why would he even show up again, Haru asks himself while he’s tugging on a costume that’s probably two sizes too small for him. Tonight’s theme is School Days,and Haru has the pleasure of doning a sailor uniform far too short to ever be school appropriate. There’s a whistle from behind, and Haru turns around, brow raised in mild annoyance.

“Damn, Haru. Pray that you don’t drop something.” Rin’s buttoning up the collar of his gakuran, or something resembling a gakuran, near skin tight and clinging to Rin’s body like a glove.

“I’m not clumsy like you” Haru straightens out the bow attached to the sailor collar, frowning at the ugly shine of the satin.

“I hope this isn't from an actual high school, because that’s fucking gross and I might have to report Sasa-bro to authorities.”

“ _Sasa-bro?_ ” Haru says, stepping into simple black stilettos because he can’t be bothered with laces tonight.

“If he gets to give us bad nicknames, then he gets one too.” Rin’s jumping up and down, trying to tug the tightest pair of pants Haru has ever seen over his hips. “Don’t just stand there and stare, help me, asshole.”

It takes two of them, Haru tugging at the pants from the belt loops, and Rin kicking his legs up and down and forcing the zipper up to get Rin fully situated in his pants.

“Can you bend your knees?” Without the fabric ripping, Haru wonders.

“No. But I look good. So does it matter?”

“You can’t move freely like that.” Rin glares at him like “shut the fuck up” and opens his mouth to say something, but Sasabe’s strolling into the dressing room, clapping his hands loudly and bellowing out laughter to signify his presence.

“Looking good, lovelies! Haruka, you’re up whenever you’re ready. Crowd looks hungry, give ‘em an eyeful, alright?” Sasabe’s taking him in again, and Haru looks away. “Well, not that it’d be very hard in that. You know, I got that uniform back in ’89, belonged to a-”

“Please stop.”

Haru’s clacking away, back straight and confident, as he tries to pretend he’s ready to be disappointed tonight.

* * *

Nagisa said do what feels right. Haruka told him he thought too much. But maybe he should have thought a little bit harder before doing this, before dragging himself back to the center of the city on a Saturday night. Is this really what feels right, is standing in front of the neon flashing lights of Splash Free! really what feels right?

Makoto’s been told he’s not very smart, pretty gullible, a little bit too sentimental, but this is probably the stupidest thing Makoto’s ever acted upon in his life.

But Haruka is so different, and it’s caused Makoto to fixate, think about nothing but Haruka because he’s just so.

Fascinating.

And Makoto wishes he could pinpoint why, as he walks past the club entrance and blends himself into the crowd. He thinks about it a lot, not to the advice of both Haruka and Nagisa, and he still can’t quite decide what or how or why he’s found himself so positively taken by the concept of Haruka.

Makoto’s thought process is shattered by the piercing cheers of the crowd surrounding him. He tries to pretend his heart isn’t jackhammering around in his ribcage, tries to blame it on the thumping bass from the music. He feels his palms sweat, heat rising up and flushing his neck, but not from memories of what happened last time, but from the sheer concept of I get to see him again.

Haruka’s legs can go on forever, Makoto’s decided, pearly smooth calves elongated by simple, black heels. He tries very hard to ignore the skirt that just barely brushes against Haruka’s thighs, and tries even harder to deny the fact that the sailor uniform suits him, navy blue matching the cold sapphire he’s dreamed about far too many times.

Makoto spends more time looking at his face than anything else, trying so hard to memorize every line and plane and dip. He could live with just looking, just memorizing, with Haruka just being a little piece of something he can carry in the back of his mind.

But, just because he can live with it, doesn’t mean Makoto can’t wish for something more.

And then, for the first time, Haruka looks out. Sapphire eyes glance over the crowd, vague and uninterested. He almost looks like he’s searching, trying to pinpoint something far off in the distance as he skims over every face in the ocean of stares. Makoto wonders what it feels like, to be up on a stage and know everyone’s looking at you, there for you, watching you. What it’d feel like to not blend into the crowd for once, stand out, be different.

Makoto’s never been anything more than just relatively ordinary, and part of him is left wondering what it’d be like to be more like Haruka, who’s anything but.

“Dude. Dude he’s looking at you. Man, look, wake up.” Someone’s tugging on Makoto’s arm, and he feels eyes on him all of a sudden, feeling exactly what he was thinking about just moments before. He looks up and yeah, yeah he is. Haruka’s looking at him, and maybe Makoto’s making it up, being hopeful, but there’s a glint in those deep, blue eyes that glisten like puddles under the morning sun after a storm.

Makoto bites his lip, and raises his hand to let Haruka know that yes, he’s there for him. And Haruka cocks his head like he’s contemplating something, and he raises his hand too, crooking one finger like follow me, before clicking off the stage. The crowd hoots, thinking the gesture’s for all of them, but Makoto knows, and he tries to not think about how it makes his heart skip three beats this time, to know that, even the littlest thing, was meant just for him.

* * *

Haru puts his head in his locker and almost screams. He settles for a long sigh that trails into a groan because Haru does not have the emotional capacity to deal with this many conflicting feelings. He can feel a total of 5 noncomplex emotions, annoyance, bitterness, indifference, fondness, and maybe sometimes endearment. So this recent addition of disappointment, plus longing and hopefulness and also anxious and nervousness gives Haru a headache because what.

Haru doesn’t know how to deal with this, doesn’t even know what he’s doing, but when he saw Makoto out there again, he knew exactly what he wanted.

“Need me to close the locker on you, because you have no idea how many times I’ve wanted to do that.” Rin’s leaning against his own locker, two down from Haru’s, sneering down at him with arms crossed. Haru turns his head and frowns, but says nothing.

“What’s your issue? You look different. Like you’re actually feeling something for once.” Haru frowns, deep and seated into his brow before lifting himself from his locker and sitting on one of the love seats. Rin looks positively perplexed, and slowly takes a seat next to Haru.

“…wait you’re actually feeling something. What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.”

“You always leave after your set. Why are you hanging around now?” Haru doesn’t answer.

“The only time you ever stuck around after your shift was…” Rin stops dead and Haru looks away.

“Oh my god.”

“Don’t.”

“He’s here again, tall, green, and handsome.”

“Stop.”

“Haru what did I tell you about emotional investment.”

“You were drunk and sad, I don’t think you even remember what you told me about emotional investment.”

“Does it matter?” Rin’s jabbing his finger into Haru’s chest. “I’m telling you now. Do not. Get emotionally invested. In a client. I didn’t even know you were even capable of emotional investment so I didn’t think I’d ever have to have this conversation with you but clearly you’re a little bit more human than I thought.”

“It’s fine.” It’s an end-all to any conversation Rin tries to have with Haru in regards to any of his life choices. It never actually means anything is really fine, just means _“we’re done having this conversation_.” Rin sighs and stands from the couch.

“Whatever. When it all falls to shit, don’t come telling me.” He shoves his hand into the pockets of his too-tight slacks. “I guess you’ll want the couch. Come find me when you’re done with him, I’ll be at the bar complimenting Rei until he gives me free drinks.”

Rin disappears behind the curtain and Haru’s alone again with his own bad choices. Haru crosses his legs and presses the side of his index finger to his mouth. Rin’s right, kind of, he has no idea what he’s doing, why he’s doing it, but then again, Haru’s never needed a reason to do anything other than he wants to.

So then, Haru wonders, why does he need a reason now?

He comes to the conclusion that he doesn’t right when a voices pipes up from behind the curtain, nervous and shaky and Haru ignores how endeared that makes him feel.

“Um. Haruka? Are you…?”

“I’m here. Come back.”

And he’s there. Makoto’s there, all nervous and anxious just like Haru remembers. Haru adds another emotion to his growing list of new things he’s felt because of Makoto, and that one’s excitement.

“Um. Hi.” Makoto’s smiling, looking sheepish and vulnerable. He scratches the back of his head and tugs at his hair, and Haru just wants to stand, walk up to him and-

“Hey.” Haru says, lifting himself off the loveseat and walking slow, deliberate steps, like someone would approach a shy animal that could run away at any moment.

Makoto looks positively fixated on him, green eyes attentive, bright, shining, and Haru relishes in it, can’t get enough of it, wants to memorize that stare because Haru swears he’ll never be able to find someone who looks at him like that ever again.

“Welcome back. Take a seat.” Haru directs Makoto to the love seat, enough space for the two of them to sit side by side. Not that they’d be doing that, Haru muses, wanting to claim his spot right on Makoto’s thighs-

His spot?

Haru blinks, jarred by his own thought process, but if Makoto notices, he doesn’t let on, and he takes a seat the right end of the couch. He looks a little awkward, knees drawn tightly together.

“Relax. It’s fine, right?” Haru says, and he’s not sure if he’s telling Makoto or telling himself. Makoto starts to fidget, so Haru stops and cocks his head.

“Is there something wrong?” Makoto tugs at his fingers.

“Um. Well. I. I mean. No. Nothing’s wrong. Everything is actually really good. Like really really good.” Haru raises a brow. He’s very clearly reminded why he talks to one person total, staring at Makoto blankly because he just doesn’t understand.

“Then what’s the problem?”

“I just.” Makoto pats the seat next to him. “Sit here?” Red warning signals flash up in Haru’s head. Something about Sasabe saying to be wary, not to trust, but Makoto looks as harmful as a kicked puppy, so he steps over to the other end of the couch and sits, two hand-widths between their thighs. It’s definitely not the closest they’ve been, but Haru can feel the heat radiating off of Makoto’s body at this distance, and it’s driving him a little bit hazy.

“What’s your name?” Haru flinches, thoughts clearing out immediately because huh?

“Excuse me.” he deadpans, because what exactly…?

“Your name. Like…Haruka. That’s just a…um. Stage name, right?” Haru blinks owlishly and opens his mouth to respond, but realize he has nothing to say. Haru’s very often silent, but he’s almost never, ever, lost for words. But for once, Haru wants to respond, but has no idea what he’s expected to say.

“…It’s my name.” He says finally, because it’s true.

“Oh.” Makoto breathes out, lips round and wide. “Okay. I like it. It’s…” He trails off.

“Haru.”

“Hm?”

“Haru. It’s better than Haruka.” Makoto’s draw together and he looks almost disappointed for a second.

“…Okay. So…Haru…”

 

And it goes on like that and Haru’s lost track of time because he can hear the roar of the club gradually calming down as people get too drunk to carry on for the night, whisk themselves away in taxicabs to sleep their hangovers off until they resume their 9-5s for the rest of the week. But Makoto’s still there, sitting with enough distance between them to be considered not touching, but close enough to be considered intimate.

So far, Haru’s learned that Makoto has twin siblings, Ran and Ren, takes care of stray cats, goes to Tokyo U, and most importantly, works as a swim instructor. Haru tries not to lean in when Makoto says swim, tries to keep his distance because it’s clear that Makoto’s doing the same.

Makoto, in turn, has learned that Haru’s favorite color is not blue, and that he doesn’t have a favorite color, his favorite food is mackerel, and also swims.

“Competitively?” Makoto asks.

“No.” Haru says it in an almost snap, and he feels just a little bit bad when Makoto flinches. “Not anymore.”

“So you don’t swim for your university?”

“I don’t go to school.”

“Oh, so you’re from here then, like me.”

“No.” Makoto draws his brows together, confused.

“Then-”

“Things happen.”

It’s quiet, and Haru thinks it’s his fault, but then again, can he really be blamed? Haru’s head is reeling, and there’s another emotion he can add to his growing list of things he’s started to feel, and this one is confusion. What are they doing, sitting side by side but not even so much as a thigh brush. Haru’s not used to it, being asked things instead of being told, and it makes him.

Uncomfortable?

Scared?

Vulnerable?

…

Hopeful?

 

“What are you doing?” Haru finally asks, voice raised just the slightest. Makoto’s lips turn down.

“Um. Getting to know you…?” He phrases it like a question, like Makoto’s not sure himself.

“But why?” Haru stresses, because really, why.

“I’m. Not sure.”

“What are you here for?” Haru’s starting to get frustrated, because he doesn’t want to hope, doesn’t want to let his guard down, thinking that someone could ever care, want to open him up piece by piece instead of tearing out the parts that are convenient.

Haru’s climbing up over the couch, leaning across Makoto’s lap like a cat arching defiantly.

“Weren’t you here for this? Is that what this place is for?” _Isn’t that what I’m for?_

“No, Haru! I mean, yes-but! I also mean no!” Makoto’s clambering into the couch arm, pulling away from Haru as much as possible. Haru stops, and he suddenly feels exposed, tugging down on the hem of his skirt.

“Sorry.” He sits back, because there’s a lot he wants to say, wants to ask, but he can’t think of the right way to say it. Makoto shakes his head.

“No. It’s okay. I’m sorry.” He tugs on his fingers, staring down at his lap. “It’s silly. After- well. You know. It was hard to um. Get you out of my head. Like it’s a little embarrassing.” He lets out a little laugh, and it rings in Haru’s ears like a chime. “I know that’s dumb, since I’m sure you see different people in and out every day, why would I be different, right? So I thought I’d just get over it, but. I dunno. You were there, and all I wanted was to know a little more.” Makoto’s shaking his head and Haru feels like he’s going to pass out.

“You know how you told me I think too much?”

Haru just nods, because he’s afraid to say anything.

“Maybe I didn’t. Think enough this time. Didn’t think this quite through. Sorry for making things weird and making you uncomfortable.” Makoto stands up, and Haru just watches him, eyes wide like dinner plates.

“But it was nice. Talking to you I mean. You’re really something, Haru-chan.” And Makoto smiles, honest to god smiles, and it melts all of the hard facets in Haru’s body.

He wants to call out, say no, I’m sorry, come back because maybe I understand a little bit more now, but he’s gone now, and Haru realizes he can’t remember how green Makoto’s eyes are anymore. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> throw sticks at me at kasuutan.tumblr.com or @kasuutan on twitter


	4. d is for dangerous

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in which kisumi brings true love together except not really

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> it is 2 am. i did not proof this. forgive me for terrible errors i will go back and edit this later.

  
“Go home.”

“But Haru! It’s so much more fun here than it is in my boring old house!” Haru wants to point out the cracks in the ceiling, the fact that sometimes his bath water runs with mysterious chunks floating on the surface, and the heater that has two settings- arctic winters or the heated surface of the sun. He wants to point out to Kisumi, sporting his limited edition Nikes and Comme des Garcons sweater, that there is nothing fun about his living conditions as of late. 

Of course, Kisumi flops himself on the couch like he’s entitled to it. Haru turns on his heel and walks to the kitchen, and no, he isn’t throwing his groceries onto the counter forcefully, he’s not purposely opening cabinets and slamming them louder than usual, and he’s definitely not trying to drown the sound of Kisumi’s voice out with the garbage disposal. 

This isn’t what Haru wanted to come home to, he just wanted to make his curry, maybe catch up on his knitting or something, anything but this. 

“What the fuck, Haru, be nice.” Rin’s shoving past Haru into the kitchen. 

“I am being nice.” Because Haru is, seeing as Kisumi is still in the apartment and hasn’t been kicked two blocks down. Rin clicks his tongue and pulls two beers (most definitely not stolen from the club via Rei) out of the fridge. Haru frowns. First, he comes home to Kisumi on his couch, and now he’s taking his alcohol, who the fuck-

“Oh, Rin, you know how he is, all hard to get~.  He’s secretly happy to see me, I can see it in his pretty little face!” Haru starts peeling carrots for his curry, imagining that- 

“Oi, Haru, don’t forget to make enough for three tonight.” The tip of the carrot snaps right off, and Haru grits his teeth. 

“Awww, how cute!” Kisumi coos, and Haru cleaves the head of his mackerel off with more force than necessary. “He’s like a perfect little housewife, isn’t he Rin?” Haru’s hand slips and he fucks up the fillet of his fish, meat chunking off with the scales. 

“Not even close, he never listens and just stands there not saying anything, if I could get divorced, I would, but he helps me with my shitty rent.” Haru wonders if they realize he can hear them, giving up on filleting the fish cleanly and slicing it into chunks. He wonders if he should leave the bones and scales in for Kisumi’s portion. 

“Ah, Rin, see that’s where you’re wrong! Trust me on this, I know how Haru really i-“

“Kisumi.” Kisumi looks up from the couch, stupid strawberry milkshake hair cascading down as he tilts his head back. 

“Hm, need me bae?” 

“Go home.” Kisumi jumps up from the couch, pout pursing his lips. He trots into the kitchen, arms wrapping around Haru from behind. 

“But honey, I haven’t had dinner yet!” Haru swats Kisumi’s hands away and turns around. 

“Eat dinner at home, then. I need this curry to last three days.” Haru’s stirring the contents of his stew pot, steam wafting up into his face. 

“Nnnn, you’re being so rude, baby!” 

“Stop.”

“But if you insist, I don’t wanna make you all fussy again. I guess I’ll just see you at my party!” Haru stops, wiping his hands on his apron. 

“Party?”

He’s too late, because Kisumi’s out of the house like a pastel blur, with a rushed “see you, honey!” before the door’s slammed shut. In the back of his mind, Haru wonders how many times he’s been left hanging by people walking away from him as of late. 

Rin’s trying to creep out of the living room, inching towards the hallway to escape to his room. 

“Rin.” 

“Ah.” 

“What party?” And Rin’s doing that neck scratch thing again, looking off to the side like he wants to avoid answering the question. Haru’s not having it, arms crossed over his apron, ladle tapping against his side. 

“A-ah. Well. Kisumi came over…”

“I’m aware.”

“-because he wanted to invite us to this thing he’s throwing at his place. Parents are out of town, Hayato’s on a weekend trip with his school. And you know. Rich kids. Big houses. Expensive booze.” Haru suddenly feels like a mother, like he’s granting his child permission to go to friend’s house. 

“Okay.” Haru says, because he’s not sure what he has to do with this party. He turns his attention back to his curry, lifting the ladle to his mouth. Too salty. He blames Kisumi. 

“No, Haru. Listen.” Rin’s leaning across the breakfast bar, looking very intent, like he’s going to give Haru a lecture or a life lesson. Haru’s not ready for this, doesn’t think he’ll ever be ready for this, so he turns the blower for the stove on high. 

Rin scowls, lifts himself from the counter and stomps over. He flicks the stove blower off, which surprises Haru, because Haru wasn’t even aware Rin had ever used the stove, let alone known where the button for the blower was. 

“You’re avoiding things.” Rin says, and Haru rolls his eyes. “No, no don’t you fucking dare Haru. I know your shitty little game. Known it for eight fucking years. And I know when you’re trying to avoid things- which is all the time, for the record.” 

“Serve yourself.” Haru’s shoving a bowl into Rin’s hands, crossing the room to the couch. The upholstery’s absorbed Kisumi’s cologne, strong and fruity, and Haru wonders how long it’ll take for the scent to fade. 

“Spill it, what fucked you up on Saturday?” 

“I’m fine.” Rin rolls his eyes so dramatically, Haru can hear them turning in their sockets. 

“The wine is gone. The entire bottle of wine is gone. I took that on Sunday. It is Monday.”

“I used it to cook.” 

“Oh my god, bullshit.” 

“It’s fine. I’ll get you another one tomorrow.” And he will, though Haru wonders who does the inventory for the bar, because he knows him and Rin aren’t the only workers stealing from Rei. 

“How are you so good at missing the point of everything I say?”Rin’s tipping back his beer, which Haru tries to reach for, but it’s snapped back immediately.

“Oh no, not after you stole my entire bottle of wine.”  
“You can’t steal something that was already stolen.” 

“Fucking spill. What’s wrong, Haru?” And Haru just sighs, long and exasperated. 

“I don’t know. Nothing.” Haru stares down at his bowl, pushing the food around with his spoon. Rin’s staring at him, looking disappointed, so Haru goes on. “Everything. A lot of things are wrong.” And that’s the problem. So many things are wrong, they’ve all blended and blurred into one big mess, one that Haru’s gotten so used to, he thinks maybe, it’d be easier to just pretend it’s normal. There are so many things wrong, Haru can’t even separate them anymore. 

Rin’s looking at him again, and it’s Haru’s least favorite expression, hates it when people look at him this way. It’s creased brows and the slight downturn of lips; all sorry feeling, like Haru’s disappointed someone, like he’s the one who should be sorry. 

The couch lifts, and Rin’s back in the kitchen, pulling the refrigerator door open. Haru’s pressing his spoon to his mouth, but his appetite’s gone. Rin’s back, sitting on the floor with his back to the couch. He hands Haru a bottle and puts two more on the coffee table. 

“You look like shit.” Haru just stares, at the bottle, at his hand, at Rin. He wonders, just like his first day in Tokyo, sitting on the bench outside the train station, wonders where the hell he went wrong to end up here. 

 

Haru doesn’t end up surprised when he’s the one lugging Rin back to his bed, blubbering a little bit because, well. When it comes to Rin, Haru’s lost the ability to be surprised by how easy it is to make the grown man cry. 

“Haru I know I’m like a huge fuckin’ dick to you and I also know you’re a huge fuckin’ dick to me but I know you love me and you know I love you too right?”

“Mhm.” Haru lays Rin down on the bed and sits on the floor. 

“And you know that I’m always on your ass because I just care about you right?”

“Sure.” 

“Because I don’t want you like falling in love with some guy you gave a lap dance to this one time because you know that’d be fuckin’ stupid and I know you’re an idiot but you’re better than that I think.”

“Thanks.” Haru pulls the blankets up over Rin’s shoulders, and Rin rolls over onto his side, bleary crimson eyes laying unfocused on Haru’s face. 

“I don’t really get why but I know whatever happened on Saturday’s bothering you.” Haru tries to look away, tries to deny it, but Rin’s reaching out an unstable hand and pressing fingers against Haru’s lips. “Ah aha shh shh shh. Don’t talk. I can see it in your face, you’ve gone from kinda pissy to looking like someone pissed in the pool.” Haru opens his mouth to say something, anything, but Rin’s rolling onto his back, mattress springs creaking under his weight. 

“And that’s why you’re going to Kisumi’s party. Get fucked, like figuratively and maybe also literally, forget tall green and handsome, move on, you know. Normal stuff.” 

“Is there going to be a pool?” Haru asks because if anyone would have their own pool, it’d be Kisumi. Rin flips back onto his side, eyes narrowing instantaneously. 

“There is NOT going to be a swimming pool you stupid slut.” 

“Rude.” 

They’re quiet for a bit, and Haru lays down on the floor, arm pillowing his head. 

“Haru.” 

“Go to sleep, Rin.”  
“You’re gonna be fine.” And that’s all Haru wants. For things to be fine. For things to be completely, utterly ordinary. 

Rin hangs his hand off the side of the bed, and for Rin’s sake, Haru indulges, locking their fingers together between the knuckles.

They fall asleep like that, and between the cold floor and Rin’s even breathing, Haru forgets that decisions are being made for him again.

* * *

 

Every single day, Makoto loses count of the amount of people he sees wearing Tokyo U spirit wear as he boards and disembarks the train. Sweaters, hats, t-shirts, lanyards, IDs. They roam the streets of Tokyo, sometimes in packs, sometimes alone with earbuds tucked away in their hair. Makoto likes people watching, he wonders what their majors are, where they’re from, what their favorite classes are, what brought them to Tokyo. 

When he gets off the train, shuffles out of the station, and walks the few blocks to the university entrance, he realizes that every single one of those people are his school mates. 

He has never seen the same person twice. 

Makoto blends into the vast sea that is Tokyo U, becomes another number out of 28,000,  and as he walks past his fellow school mates, he wonders if any of them would recognize him out on the street, out in the real world. 

The answer, Makoto knows, is probably no, as he sits in the second to last row in the back of his lecture hall. 

It’s half way through the quarter. He has no idea what his professor’s name is, and he’s positive the professor doesn’t know his either. 

He takes out a notebook, pencil, and writes, falling away into the ordinary, unremarkable rinse and repeat; over, over, and over. 

Days tick by, closer, closer, closer, and Makoto knows when he hits twenty, his grey-ness will stick, all permanently etched into his skin, never finding exactly what makes him more than a number out of 28,000. 

He has one year. 

Makoto doesn’t think he’ll make it in time. 

The minutes are ticking by, and Makoto can feel the class getting antsy. He hears the shuffling of papers, snapping and zipping of bags, screeches of chair legs against tile. Half the class is already filing out of the door, and Makoto can’t help but feel sorry for the professor, still standing at the board, still trying to teach. 

Makoto finds it a little bit sad, how fast everyone’s ready to move. Go go go, like it’s all a rush, a race to make each day come faster. 

He makes his way to the cafeteria, huddled into a pack of students, all touching shoulder to shoulder, but never saying a word. Everyone’s looking down, at the floor, at their phones, at the book they’re trying to cram in before class. 

He orders his food, wonders the name of the cashier he’s seen countless times, but never bothered to figure out the name of, and sits at one of the countless round tables filled by countless university students. 

There’s a buzz to university, a sound, an indiscernible buzz that fills the back of Makoto’s mind, practically ignored. It’s the sounds of all the conversations, all the little details of each individual’s lives, telling stories about where they went this weekend, what they did, all the interesting things that makes everyone different, and they all blend into one huge ignorable noise until Makoto can’t tell anything apart. 

Makoto’s too absorbed in his lunch and increasingly apathetic thoughts to notice the chair being pulled out beside him. 

“Yoohoo! Makoto!” Pastels bleed into the seat next to him, soft pinks and lavenders that Makoto is sure would never, ever dull to grey. 

“Ah, Kisumi, hi!” Makoto scoots his tray over, letting Kisumi’s slide onto the table, edges bumping together. “It’s been a while, huh? I guess that’s the med school life, isn’t it?” Kisumi leans back in his chair, slouching down until his lower half is almost out of the seat. 

“I haven’t slept in two days, Makoto. This is where I die. Do you see these bags?” Kisumi gestures to his face, points under his eyes, but Makoto can’t see anything. 

“Uh…”  
“They’re so thick and heavy they’ve gained sentience, Makoto.” Makoto just chuckles, because he’s not sure what to say in response to that. 

“And you, how are you holding up?” Makoto scratches his head.

“I’m. Okay.” Makoto pushes his food around on his plate, because he’s never sure how to answer this kind of question. He’s holding up fine- grades are fine, more than fine actually. Classes are fine, simple, easy. He’s got it easy, barely having to worry about anything at all.

And yet, Makoto can’t find it in himself to say that he’s fine. 

Kisumi frowns, and Makoto’s first thought is the expression doesn’t suit him. 

“You look all kinds of not right. Can’t really place it though.” Makoto lets out a humorless laugh, and Kisumi catches his jaw between his fingers. He turns his head right and left, like he’s trying to find something. 

“Ah. I found it.” Kisumi drops his jaw and taps a finger against Makoto’s lips. “Right there. Your smile is all messed up.” Kisumi clicks his tongue and shakes his head. Makoto presses his fingers to his mouth, like he’ll find something physically wrong with it. Kisumi leans back in his chair, back of his hand against his forehead. 

“Someone took away my poor Makoto’s beautiful smile, what a cruel world it is without it!” 

“A-ah. No. No one-” 

“But! I’m gonna bring it back~!” Kisumi scoots in closer, shoulder pressed up against Makoto’s. “When was the last time you went out, Makoto?” 

Makoto opens his mouth, almost says oh, the last time I went out, I went to a strip club to see that one stripper that made me feel like I was just a little bit different, and then I made it super awkward and now I’m doubting everything I feel. 

He closes his mouth again.

“Can’t even remember?” Kisumi shakes his head and starts cooing. “Poor baby, we’re changing that.” 

Kisumi’s taking Makoto’s hand and turning it palm side up. Pen between his fingers, Kisumi’s scrawling away onto Makoto’s skin in clean, neat blue ink. 

“Friday night, okay? If you’re not there, I’ll be very, very cross with you. I might not even let you sit with me at lunch!” And Kisumi’s reaching over, taking the leftovers of Makoto’s bread, and kicking up from the table. 

“And also, wear something cute!”

Kisumi’s out of the cafeteria before Makoto realizes this is the second time he’s been forcibly dragged to something and told to wear something cute. 

He wonders if it means something.

* * *

 

In the free time he’s had, along with the sizable disposable income he’s managed to accumulate over the past month and a half, Haru’s found himself taking Rin’s advice and updating his wardrobe. 

Or more like, succumbing to Rin’s advice, as Rin drags him through the mall store by store, tossing ill-fitting tanktops and iller-fitting sweats (joggers, Rin says, they’re called joggers) over the dressing room doors. 

Haru takes none of Rin’s suggestions, of course, because Haru hates baggy clothing, thank you very much, and there’s something about tank tops that works for Rin but does not work for him. 

Maybe he’s not enough of an asshole, Haru thinks to himself as Rin spits something along the lines of; 

“You’re such a fucking queer look at your basket all cardigans and button ups and shit imagine if the guys at the club saw you shopping right now.” 

“That shirt is ripped.” Haru points to one of the (many) damaged pieces of fabric draped over Rin’s arms. He rolls his eyes. 

“It isn’t ripped, idiot, it’s artfully distressed.” Haru can’t think of a single logical reason to pay for purposely damaged clothing, but he realizes Rin, the person who manages to come up with elaborate reasons as to why he should definitely own 5 of the same kind of tank top, can come up for a logical explanation to anything. 

“So, what made you decide to take up my advice? Not that you actually took it, you just ended up buying the same kind of shit you always wear.” Haru shurgs.

“No reason.”

“Trying to impress someone?” 

“No.”

“Is it Kisumi?”

“Definitely no.” Haru doesn’t even hesitate, because it’d be suspicious to. Rin cackles. 

“Yeah, he’s too good for you anyways.” Haru definitely tries to not react, and he hopes it isn’t visible. 

The train halts to a stop, and they shuffle out with the crowd. The air is muggy, polluted and sticky like everything else in Tokyo. Haru wants to cover his mouth and nose, memories of fresh salt air barely sticking amidst all the smoke, smog, and grime. 

They walk, bags keeping space between them as countless pedestrians shove past them, shoulder brushing shoulder. 

Tokyo is huge, Haru knows that, but he wonders when exactly it’ll swallow him up whole.

“So I’m fucking tired. I’m gonna take a nap, don’t even think of waking me up before 7. We’ll leave at like 8:30.” Rin’s throwing his keys onto the kitchen counter, before yawning and shuffling off to his room. “What about you? What are you going to do?” Haru’s suddenly overcome with this urgent sense of normalcy. His fingers itch, skin crawls, and he realizes what exactly he hasn’t done since he set foot on that train from Iwatobi out to Tokyo. 

“Swim.” 

Haru doesn’t even give Rin a chance to say “what?” before he’s collected his things and is back out the door, back on the street, looking for that one thing, anything, that could make Tokyo feel ordinary.  

 

Even the pool water tastes different. Haru tries to ignore it as he pushes the water aside, flying through the lane line over and over and over again. He doesn’t even stop once, just turns when he gets to the end and keeps pushing. He doesn’t even see why he needs to stop; water’s never stopped him before, so why now? Even it if feels a little bit different, a little bit grimy and chemical, all artificial lights pouring from the ceiling of the indoor pool. 

Everything in Tokyo is artificial, Haru thinks as he finally does stop, turns onto his back half way through a lap and just floats. He stares up at the fluorescent lights, glare casting across his goggles. 

“Hey, you. We’re closing up for the night, you gotta get out.” The life guard’s perched at the edge of the pool, wild blood orange hair sticking up like he’s been electrocuted. He looks familiar, and Haru tilts his head in an effort to remember. He pulls his goggles and cap off, shakes the water out of his hair and grips the edge of the pool wall to hoist himself out. 

“Oh, so it is you! I thought I was seeing things, but no one quite swims like you, Nanase.” It’s the lifeguard again, addressing him by name, so Haru definitely knows him.

It takes him a bit, picking through the few number of obnoxious red-heads he’s come to know in the short yet long 20 years of his life. 

“Ah.” he says finally in recognition. “Samezuka captain.” There’s not much else for Haru to say, because that’s all he knows him as. He hoists himself out of the pool and walks to the locker room, tugging towel around his shoulders. 

“Yeah! I haven’t seen you around, where are you swimming for? It can’t be Tokyo U.”

“I’m not.” Haru doesn’t want to have this conversation, not at all, so he deliberately slams his locker door closed as loudly as possible after he grabs his shampoo. 

“Didn’t think so. So where? Oh! Let me guess- you’re in the city for a competition. Are you with Kyoto? I didn’t think I saw your name on the roster…”

“I’m not.” He wonders why Samezuka captain is still following him as he runs one of the showers. It’s a bit unnerving, and Haru hopes he’ll leave soon.

“Then where-”

“I’m not in school.” Haru finally says, gritting his teeth, because how many times has he had to explain this without people getting the hint?

He can feel Samezuka captain’s face dropping even though his eyes are closed and covered in shampoo suds. Haru isn’t around to impress anyone, but it doesn’t change the fact that he’s disappointed another person. 

“O-oh. I see. Well. I’ll let Rin know I saw you. He’s in the city too, you know.”

“I know.” This is his shampoo, Haru almost says. 

“Maybe I’ll see you around?” 

“Maybe.” 

“Cool. Rad.” He hears foot steps slosh away, and Haru lets out a sigh. Suds drip to the floor and run down the drain, just like every single failed expectation Haru’s ever been held to. 

* * *

 

Makoto realizes exactly what he’s forgotten the minute he steps onto Kisumi’s gated property. His side seems strangely empty, he keeps looking down like he’s lost something, keeps feeling the need to start running after something when in reality, there’s nothing to run after. 

He’s forgotten Nagisa, and Makoto realizes this is the biggest mistake of his life. 

Makoto knows nobody at this party, all three floors of Kisumi’s house packed full of university bodies. It’s ridiculous, out of at least a hundred people, Makoto knows no one except for Kisumi himself. 

Maybe he should just go home. It’s movie night at home. The twins picked out The Little Mermaid, maybe he should just-

“Makoto!” 

And now he’s trapped, and Makoto thinks to himself “why exactly didn’t I bring Nagisa along?”

And there’s Kisumi again, pastels somehow even brighter in the dim lighting of the house lights. He’s juggling bottles in his arms, leaned back to keep them from falling. Without being asked, Makoto takes half of them from him, and Kisumi leads him to the kitchen. 

“Ah, thank you! I didn’t expect this many people to show up, I had to run out to get a second set of drinks! This crowd’s thirsty, if you know what I mean~!” Makoto just chuckles, even though he doesn’t get why that’s funny, since of course they’re thirsty, if they already drank up all the drinks?

Kisumi leans back against the counter and pops open a can of beer. He tosses one to Makoto, which he manages to catch without embarrassing himself. 

“You look good.” Kisumi peers at him over the edge of the can, smirk curling around the metal. “I like that flannel. Looks good on you. Didn’t think red was your color, but it suits you.” Makoto presses his own can to his lips, hoping that since Nagisa isn’t here to cause trouble, he can pretend to drink this same beer for the rest of the night. Hopefully he can avoid any Stupid Mistakes this time, and not end up with a head full of sapphire eyes and tiny lips. 

He takes a sip, hates the taste, and lets Kisumi chat him into the darkness of the party. 

* * *

Haru could make an observation about how this party is a representative microcosm of Tokyo as a whole, with the rising smell of intoxication permeating through the air and whatnot, but Haru is slowly contributing to that, so he doesn’t really have the capacity to think much further on it. 

He’s been stuck to Rin’s side, for the most part, and also stuck to whatever he’s managed to pour into his cup. Rin thinks Haru’s there because “Haru you’re fucking hopeless in social situations, just stick with me and maybe you won’t get hurt.” but as Rin starts to sway hopelessly early into the night, Haru knows he can’t stray far or Rin will end up a continent away by tomorrow morning. 

Haru’s getting a headache from the heat of the room and the poor lighting; it’s worse than the club, at least there he can guarantee a place to sit down. But here, it’s all shoulder to shoulder, grinding and bumping, couches occupied by faceless people macking it straight into the cushions. He wants to go home, immediately, but taking Rin anywhere near a moving vehicle would result in exactly what Haru doesn’t want to deal with. 

So instead, Haru steers Rin around, sipping aimlessly at what he thinks might be wine at this point, he’s not sure, tastes all blending together until his tongue is desensitized. 

“I can FEEL it, you know? Like, I can tell he’s here.” Rin’s saying, dragging himself through the house in circles. They’re going up the stairs now, and Haru has a hand on Rin’s back just in case.

“Who?” Haru entertains, even though he knows he won’t get the answer he needs.

“Some asshole. That’s who.” Rin slurs, looking right, then left, then right again, like he’s crossing a busy intersection. Some Asshole, Haru realizes, is a recurring character in Rin’s life, that he’s yet to have met, but has managed to worm their way into multiple conversations. 

“Yeah, okay, but who?” And then Rin is fucking sprinting away, and Haru’s reflexes are way too impaired to even consider catching up. He wonders how he does it, completely shit faced and still twice as fast as Haru sober. 

He just watches as Rin disappears into a sea deeper and darker than the ocean itself. 

* * *

Makoto’s lost. He’s lost in a house, a house that while granted, is about three times large than his own, is still a house. He can’t even tell what floor he’s on anymore, too many drinks coaxed into him by a very convincing Kisumi. 

Speaking of the reason why Makoto’s lost. 

“Kisumi!” Makoto calls out, pointlessly, all slurred around the edges. He doesn’t even know how far it carries, all the sounds bouncing off one another and fuzzing together into one huge roar. He walks, up the stairs and hopes maybe, he’ll find what he’s looking for.

* * *

 “Rin!” Because goddammit Rin, you’re gonna get hurt and I am too drunk to deal with this right now. There’s nothing, no red peaking out from the crowd, no loud obnoxious yelling and not even a little bit of crying to let Haru know Rin is anywhere nearby. He rounds a corner, calls out again, even though he knows it’s pointless. 

He doesn’t even care at this point, just wants a place to sit down. After shoving into a crowd, he finds a door. Miraculously dark, cracked open just a tad to show that it is in fact empty. 

Praise be unto, Haru thinks, as he reaches for the door knob. 

* * *

Makoto’s getting overwhelmed. To be honest, he’s always overwhelmed, but there’s just so much and all he needs is to sit and maybe splash cold water on his face. A bathroom, that’s what he needs. A bathroom. Kisumi’s house is huge and Kisumi might be rich, but Makoto’s sure even rich people use bathrooms. 

There’s a door at the end of the hallway, untouched and ignored. He wonders how drunk everyone else must be to have completely missed this Single Act of God. 

He reaches out, ready to grasp the knob and disappear. 

* * *

Warm, Haru thinks first. What the fuck, he thinks second. Door knobs aren't supposed to be warm. 

* * *

So delicate, Makoto thinks first. Wait, what? he thinks second. Because huh?

* * *

It’s awkward. Beyond awkward. They don’t even know what to say, too hazed over from heat and too drunk to even consider saying anything. They’ll probably blame the alcohol later for the excessive hand holding over the door knob. 

“Um.” Makoto says, intelligibly. 

“Ah.” Haru says, equally as intelligible. 

They push the door open together, and walk into the bathroom, together. 

The door clicks shut, and no one reacts when someone clicks the lock closed. 

They don’t know who starts it, who breaches who first. Maybe they go at the same time, it doesn’t really matter. 

Haru’s up against the door, doesn’t know if he’s backed himself up against it or if Makoto’s pinned him there. They’re so close, they can smell the drunkness in each other’s breaths, can feel it dancing across the hollows of their throats, and eventually, taste it on their lips and on the tips of their tongues 

It’s not exactly how they expect to share their first kiss, didn’t exactly expect to share a first kiss at all, but it’s too far to take it back, tongues throat deep, saliva dripping down chins all sloppy and gross. 

Shirts are hitching up, fabric getting too constricting, too hot, too much. Hot hands against newly uncovered skin, traveling up the backs of shirts, down the flat planes of chests, between bumps of ribs, it’s so-

“Ah!” Haru breaks first, pulling his mouth away with a wet pop of lips. He’s all flushed, from drunkness, heat, Makoto can’t tell, but he is also to far fucked to care beyond the fact that it’s too good of a look for someone like Haru. 

“H-hi.” Makoto stutters, hand stilled over Haru’s chest. 

“Nnn.” is Haru’s response. “Go on.” Makoto doesn’t even know what to go on doing, so he just keeps at it blindly, caressing, rubbing, pinching, until Haru’s tucking his head into Makoto’s neck, biting down because god. 

“Okay?” Makoto manages, and Haru just groans, sounding more petulant than aroused. Haru moves a thigh between Makoto’s leg and nudges up, not wanting to be completely outdone. 

And he isn’t, he assumes from the airy gasp that makes its way out from between Makoto’s lips. It’s uncharacteristic, Haru thinks, such a small sound to come from someone with such a sturdy build. 

He doesn’t mind it. 

There’s very few things he could mind about Makoto at this point. 

It doesn’t really register to either of them how stupid this entire thing is. The fact that it’s probably a really fucking bad idea. All locked up in Kisumi’s bathroom, amidst a college party, overly intoxicated, and the history or lack thereof between them. 

It doesn’t matter to either of them, unsteady hands reach between each other’s legs, fiddling at zippers, so impatient and utterly juvenile, it can’t be anything less than perfectly awful. 

Hands find their way down the fronts of pants, palming aggressive hard-ons that would ordinarily be embarrassing. They’re both too far gone, too far fucked, to even care about that sort of thing, as their unpracticed fumbling makes their knees buckle between them. 

“Fuck,” Haru hisses first, Makoto’s hand wrapping around his cock through his underwear. He thrusts mindlessly, rutting himself into Makoto’s fist. Haru hates being outdone, and his hand finds itself wormed past the elastic of Makoto’s boxers first, thumb dipping into the slit of his head, just like he knows feels so fucking-

“Ah!” And Haru smirks, because that’s better. Makoto’s shuddering, lips swollen from biting too hard. They pull apart for a little bit, because they've been practically melded since the entire Thing started. 

“W-what-“ Makoto tries to start, both their hands still pumping away. Haru lifts his free hand and presses a finger against Makoto’s lips

“S-shut up. Thinking too much, remember?” 

“O-okay.” 

Haru isn’t sure how far they expect to take this, seeing as they weren’t expecting it at all, but for some reason, Haru’s insatiable, and this high school rutting experience isn’t going to be what he settles for. 

He’s so fucked, he realizes. 

Haru turns them around and backs himself up onto the sink counter. He feels Makoto freeze, sees the gears turning in his head, and Haru sobers up for a hot minute, thinking maybe he took it too far again. 

“You don’t?” Haru asks, cocking his head to the side. It’s vague, and ordinarily, no one would understand what he meant. But for some reason, he knows Makoto will understand.

And he does, because Makoto’s stammering away for the right answer. 

“I mean- I thought. I just. You want? Like? I assumed- I’ve never done this so- Maybe you. Should?”  And then Haru sees the problem immediately. It almost makes him laugh, right out loud. But he settles for a smile, not a smirk, but a smile, which calms Makoto right down.

“I’ve never either. So it’s fine. I have an idea.” Haru’s reaching forward into one of the sink drawers because for fucks sake, this is Kisumi’s bathroom, he knows he’ll find what he needs. 

And he does,on his first try, pulls the bottle out and sets it on the counter. He sees Makoto flush right back up, and he likes the way the flush looks on Makoto’s cheeks. 

“Have you ever…?” Haru trails off, vaguely again. 

“I mean- uh.” Makoto’s eyes dart back and forth, because god god god, embarrassing, but Haru gets the idea. 

“That’s good then. You know what you’re doing.” Haru shimmies his way out of his pants. It takes too much effort, denim snug to his thighs, but eventually they fall right off, thudding to the bathroom floor. Makoto tries to not look down, he tries so fucking hard, but not hard enough, he guesses, because he feels himself stiffen at just the glimpse. 

Haru’s not real, Makoto is completely and utterly convinced. Smooth, long legs bleeding into slim narrow hips, he’s seen it all before, but not like this. 

Didn’t think he’d ever see it like this, to be honest. 

Makoto didn’t think cocks could be pretty, he assumed they’d just look like. Well. Dicks. 

But here’s Haruka again, defying whatever ideas he had about people in general, pretty cock standing at attention, pink and delicate and leaking pre-cum at the tip. 

What he’d give to just sit here and play with it, put his lips around it, do whatever with it-

“Hey.” 

It’s Haru’s favorite way to get his attention, and Makoto’s eye snap back up. 

“S-sorry, you’re just-” Don’t say it, don’t say it, don’t say it. 

“Really pretty. Is all.” Fucking Makoto Tachibana. He swears to never drink again.

And Haru flushes red, up to the tips of his ears, and wow it really IS a good look for him. 

“S-shut up and hurry before I do it myself.” And as much as Makoto would like to see that, if this is the one chance he gets before God strikes him dead, he’d rather do himself. He reaches forward for the bottle, pops the cap with a sharp plastic pop, and ungracefully coats his fingers. He presses his finger against his rim, still cold and overly coated, and Haru shivers, anchoring his hips forward. 

“Come on.” So Makoto does, pushing his finger in to his first knuckle.

It’s embarrassing, because Makoto groans first. It’s one thing doing this to yourself, Makoto thinks, but it’s completely different this way. Haru’s so tight, all perfect and warm clenching around his finger. 

“That okay?” Makoto has to ask, just to make sure. 

“Y-your fingers are big.” is what Haru has to say. 

“Sorry!” Makoto’s stupid, and almost pulls his finger out. 

“N-no it’s fine. Feels better.” If Makoto were a little bit more sober, this would probably be interesting information. “Keep going.”

So Makoto does, pulling in and out, slow at first, but getting lost in the motion as he keeps going, getting lost in Haru’s voice, little ah’s with every thrust. 

He doesn’t notice when Haru reaches for the bottle himself, doesn’t notice when Haru’s snaking his own hand down the back of his pants, doesn’t notice until cold fingers are pressing up against his own rim and he almost loses his entire being in that fucking moment. 

“Ah, fuck!” Makoto almost falls onto Haru, catches himself at the last minute, plunging his own finger up to his palm. 

Haru cries, because fuck, right there. He’s getting impatient, can’t believe Makoto’s still only on one finger. Haru’s a little bit terrible, pressing a second finger in just to get a point across. Makoto doesn’t seem to mind whatsoever, whining right into the crook of Haru’s neck. He mimics the action, index finger pushing in alongside the first. 

It’s a fucking mess, would probably be shit and painful if they were any more sober, or just different people. 

But they aren’t, and as Makoto rocks Haru further up the bathroom counter, until his back is flush against the mirror, and Haru curls his long, slender fingers right up inside Makoto, there’s no way it could possibly be bad. 

Makoto’s never wanted to impress someone the way he wants to impress Haru. 

“Haru, look at me.” And Haru listens, eyelashes fluttering over dark blue. They’re too much, Makoto wants to drown in them if it’s the last thing he does. 

“You look so nice.” Makoto has NO idea how to dirty talk, doesn’t even think about what that means, just kind of says what he thinks. But Haru flushes all the same, wants to look away before he can get more flustered. 

“No, no, don’t look away you’re too pretty to look away.” It’s Makoto sputtering again, but thank god for it, because Haru’s whining beneath him, losing rhythm with his own fingers because Makoto’s pressing hard, right where it needs to be and then-

“Please, Haru?”

That’s it.  
Haru cries out, bites his lip before it can get too fucking loud, cum splattering up onto both of their chests. It shocks him, how the fuck did he just-

“Did you just- I didn’t even-“ Makoto’s all wide eyed, not even a hint of smugness crossing his face. Haru doesn’t even give himself a second to recover, reaches forward with his free hand to wrap right around Makoto’s cock. He pumps it, long, slow, hard, pressing right against the tip as he curls his fingers inside.

“You too, okay?” Makoto groans, head falling to Haru’s shoulder. Haru leans forward, mouth pressing against the shell of his ear. 

“Makoto.” 

Makoto is loud. That’s what Haru learns. It comes straight from the back of his throat, escapes into the crook of Haru’s shoulder, cum spilling over the edge of Haru’s fist. 

Dear fucking god. 

Haru thinks he’ll probably have to clean Kisumi’s bathroom for him. 

* * *

Surprisingly, the aftermath is less awkward than either of them imagined. They laugh it off, all soft and light and airy. They clean each other up, toilet paper flushed down the drain to rid of evidence. It’s all peppered over with tiny, light kisses, and they’re both wondering exactly what the hell they’re even doing. 

They click the bathroom door open, and outside, the party’s dulled down to a light roar. 

They’re about to reach the awkward part, Haru thinks, when they both descend the stairs to the exit to part ways. 

“Fuck.” Haru says aloud. “Rin.” 

“Rin?” Makoto says, head tilted. 

“I came here with a friend. He’s probably dead by now.” Haru’s worn, sleepy, exhausted. The last thing he wants to do is look for Rin. 

They reach the door, pushing it open to exit. 

“Well.” Makoto says. “I guess. I’ll see you?” There’s the awkward. Haru shrugs. 

“Hope so.” And Haru means it. 

He almost lets Makoto go before going back inside to look for Rin, but he catches it. Right beyond Makoto’s head. There it is, a flash of red, staggering and stumbling beside broadness dressed in black, almost like a shadow. They tumble into a (rather expensive) looking car, and off they go. 

Haru cannot fucking believe it. 

Not even a good bye. 

No “Hey, don’t need to worry, I’m off.”

He could have been here all night, could have gone home to worry all night, lay in bed waiting for that door to bang open, sobbing to follow, without even a fucking word. 

Haru catches Makoto’s wrist. 

“Hey.”

If Rin’s not coming home, then.

“Come home with me.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> im a mess and so are you probably hmu on kasuutan.tumblr.com or @kasuutan on twitter
> 
> up next we probably have more porn lol let's be real what are you REALLY here for


	5. flourescent adolescent

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> what you werent expecting and im personally not that sorry- feat. a distinct lack of makoto and haru and a plethora of sousuke and rin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> why are my updates always at obscene hours  
> ill proof this again later  
> glaring mistakes are no ones fault but my own

It all starts because Rin Matsuoka is fucking un-hireable. He should have thought this out more, way too wrapped up in post-Australia angst and tears to have even considered thinking about trying to find work experience back in high school. 

Now he’s totally fucked, as he gets turned down at another group interview, this time at a sports equipment retailer. 

“You’re not quite fit for what we’re looking for” and “We’re looking for personable employees” Rin repeats over and over again in his head, dragging himself to the subway. He doesn’t even know if he has money to take the subway, should probably walk but goddamn today’s insufferable and it’s so goddamn cold. 

It’s the middle of winter, air cold and biting like it’s out to get him or something. Rin hates the cold, tugging his scarf over his mouth and shuffling through the frigid air and down to the subway platform. 

He shoves onto the train, packed in between a stout lady and her rat dog, tucked away in her dog purse thing. Rin hates those fucking rat dogs, wants to kick them sometimes, and when it starts yapping away at him, the childish desire to yap right back at it almost overcomes him. 

He leans against the train window, peering around for a seat. He knows it’s impossible, trying to find a seat on the Tokyo subway in the middle of rush hour, but he tries anyways, because Rin is so tired, so fucking fed up, all he wants to do is sit forever and let his life figure itself out. 

 

His legs are sore by the time his stop comes, rat-dog lady replaced some time ago by a group of small high school girls, tittering and giving Rin side-long glances. He tries to pretend he doesn’t notice, doesn’t even remember what it’s like to be in high school with girls, doesn’t even remember what a girl feels like at this point. He pours out of the train with the hundreds of other bodies sliding out, suffocating and squeezing the air out of him until he surfaces back onto the Tokyo streets. 

Rin feels like he’s constantly underwater, dragging his feet back to the dorms against the cold winter air. He turns the key in the lock and the overwhelming stench that Rin has dubbed “Fvckboi Eau De Toilette” rears his head in a thick, heavy smog. Rin swears the smoke is thick enough that he can see it, grey and wafting through the halls. He fans his way to his dorm, wondering if his across-the-hall neighbor is smashed enough to not notice a couple missing beers from his fridge. 

There’s only one good thing about Rin’s roommate, and it’s the fact that most of the time, he isn’t around. Tonight however, Rin wants to groan when he pushes his door open and there he is, laying across his bed, legs kicked up agains the headboard. 

The room smells terrible, like actually smells like shit, and Rin doesn’t want to know why. It’s incredibly easy to tell who’s side of the room is who’s, as Rin unravels his scarf and hangs it neatly on his bedpost. He hangs his bag on the designated hook beside his desk, and tries incredibly hard not to even look at the opposite side of the room. 

“Nakagawa.” Rin says flatly, the best greeting he’ll give. Nakagawa looks up from his magazine, one of the many that Rin’s had the misfortune of picking up while cleaning, pages stuck together and everything. 

“Oh. Matsuoka. What’s up? How did the hunt go today?” Rin doesn’t even enlighten him with an answer, draping his coat over the back of his desk chair and sitting down as loudly as possible. He flips his laptop open, making a scene of adjusting the screen and fiddling with his desk lamp. 

“Hmmm, let me guess…not what they’re looking for, huh?” The bedframe creaks behind him, and Rin can practically hear the mockery in Nakagawa’s tone. 

“Boy, am I lucky I came to Tokyo prepared- actually, I just got a raise today! Can you believe it, it’s only been a couple of months and they’re already giving me raises; they must REALLY like me, huh Matsuoka?” Rin wants to slam his face into his laptop screen and shut the lid repeatedly, until he’s at least slightly concussed. 

“Actually…I was at the office today, and I heard some pretty sweet stuff about this new place opening up downtown…looking for staff, you know? But I mean…I dunno if YOU’D wanna do it-“ Rin spins around in his chair, finally giving Nakagawa the attention he definitely does not deserve. 

“What is it?” 

The sneer comes back, the trademark Nakagawa sneer, and Rin pinpoints this exact moment in time as the Moment Everything Got Fucked.

 

Rin wishes he could say no, wishes he had the option to say no. He rubs the back of his neck, scratches the skin there until it’s red and raw. He can hear Nakagawa laughing his way out of the dorm, off campus, and into his beloved office, spreading the word that yeah, his room mate does THAT. 

Rin admits it’s fucking hilarious. Would probably think it’s hilarious, if it were anyone but him. 

But it’s him, bare thighs sticking to the pleather upholstery of the loveseat, and he thinks to himself I have One More Chance to quit. 

There’s a hand on his shoulder though, heavy and almost comforting, if anything could be considered comforting in this situation. 

“Rinrin, you look like you’re gonna piss yourself. What’s up?” It’s his boss, blond guy with a soul patch that desperately needs to be shaved. Rin frowns, because no one gets to call him Rinrin.

“I do not, it’s fine.” The boss frowns and takes a seat on the couch, cushions sinking below the both of them. 

“No, I get it. It’s weird, all this, especially for a young kid like you.” Rin grumbles and crosses his arms, as if that’ll make him more decent. 

“Well, I get it. Don’t do anything you’re not comfortable with. Let me know if anyone’s giving you a hard time.” The couch bounces back into shape as he stands and gives Rin a look over. 

“My advice to anyone who walks through these doors kid? Don’t let anyone decide who you are and what you’re worth for you, alright?” 

His boss walks away, and Rin has no idea what the fuck that means. 

 

It’s impossible. Rin needs to move out. He’s done with this dorm shit, has no idea how the entire floor, probably the entire building knows exactly how he’s making money. Actually, he’s got a pretty good idea, as he slinks back to the dorms past three in the morning, turning the lock as quietly as he can. He wraps his jacket as tightly around him as possible; he’s fully clothed now, but he feels more bare coming home than he ever does at work. No one’s even awake, the common room is empty and he can hear snoring through closed doors, but he feels like even the walls are making judgements of him. 

Rin presses his ear to the door to his own door before even trying to enter. He hears Nakagawa’s bear-like snores and he assumes it’s safe. He doesn’t have the energy or dignity to be mocked tonight. 

There’s still homework to be done, Japanese paper due tomorrow morning at 9:00. He is so Incredibly Fucked, and Rin wonders how much of the next 6 hours he’s actually going to spend working on his paper, and how much of it he’s going to spend feeling sorry for himself. 

Nakagawa stirs in his sleep, lets out this half groan/snore thing, and Rin thinks to himself that, even in their sleep, people are laughing at him. 

 

Rin remembers when he had dreams. Remembers when he had Aspirations. He still remembers the exact moment when he decided fuck everything, I have things to do and places to be. 

His younger self wouldn’t expect this to be the place he’d end up. 

Rin is tired. He doesn’t remember the last time he slept like a normal human being, can’t remember the last time he ate an actual full real meal. He does remember missing his turn at the pool this morning and nearly banging his skull straight into the wall. His coach sent him back home, rest up he said. The look of sheer disappointment in his coach’s face follows Rin all the way back to his dorm, dragging him down straight into the concrete pavement. 

He can still feel it now, actually, as he pushes into the back room of the club, throwing his bag into his locker and letting out a sigh that probably conveys more emotion than anything he could even put to words. He pulls his clothes off layer by layer, and it feels like he’s removing a piece of himself with every garment. 

All he wanted was to mean something. And now it feels like he is absolutely nothing. 

“Rin.” It takes him three full seconds to even register that someone is saying his name. 

“Rin, we need to talk.” It’s Sasabe, arms crossed over one of his ever-tacky shirts (Rin doesn’t think he’s seen the same one twice). Rin grits his teeth, because he knows if he turns around, he’ll see That Look again. The one that just bleeds disappointment and he doesn’t need to be reminded. 

“Rin.”  
“For fucks sake, what?” Rin turns, finally, and Sasabe’s looking him right in the eye. It floors Rin right there, because it’s not what he expects to see. Legitimate concern, like Sasabe is-

“You’re scaring me, kid, I’m getting worried. You look like a reanimated dead body. I mean, I knew from day one that you were pretty fucked, but you’re just getting worse.” Rin doesn’t even know what to say. 

“Yeah, well.” It’s all Rin can manage, because he’s Too aware that he’s completely fucked, but it’s not like he needs to acknowledge that to anyone else. 

Sasabe waves his hand in the direction of his office, telling Rin to follow. He’s half dressed at this point, faded t-shirt hitting just above the cuffs of his pleather shorts. He feels absolutely ridiculous, but he follows, barefoot and practically ass out into Sasabe’s office. 

Rin falls into one of the chairs before he’s even offered a seat. His head spins because jesus fuck, when was the last time I closed my eyes? Sasabe stairs at him from the desk, brow creasing just the slightest before he crosses the room to a cabinet and pulls out a glass bottle. 

From behind closed eyes, Rin can hear the clinking of glass, the glugging of liquid as it sloshes into the cups, and shuffling footsteps back towards him. 

“I don’t know what’s wrong, but I know from experience sometimes it’s just hard being not quite an adult, but not quite a kid either, right?” Rin lets his eyes flutter open again, and he’s greeted by Sasabe and two glasses. He takes one, and Sasabe places the bottle down and settles into the chair beside him. They’re both on the same side of the desk, and somewhere distant in Rin’s heart, he’s a little endeared. Comforted, maybe. 

Sasabe lets out a sigh as he sinks into the cushions of his chair, head tilted back to look straight up at the ceiling. 

“You wanna hear a story, kid?” Rin wants to say no, not really, he’d rather throw back his drink and fall asleep, but that’d be rude, since he’s getting these drinks for free and all.

“Sure.” 

Sasabe presses his own glass to his lips and sips, tentatively, like he’s trying to figure out where to start. 

“I used to be a swim coach. I heard you swim for your university. Pretty damn good at it too, seen your name around recently.” Rin grumbles and rubs the bump on his head from his earlier incident at the pool. 

“Yeah.” 

“It was fun. Kids liked me, I was good at it. But obviously, that was then and this is now, you know?” Rin doesn’t know and frankly does not give a shit, because he can feel this turning into some midlife crisis story. He sips at his drink, letting the bitter wash over his mouth and numb his tongue. 

“You know how I ended up here?” That’s a stupid fucking question, Rin thinks because how the fuck would he know?

“Have you ever loved a woman before, Rin?” Rin thinks of his mother and sister, and realizes that’s probably not the answer Sasabe’s looking for. 

“Kids, we fuck up real big most of the time, you know that. Part of becoming an adult, fucking up a lot and learning from it. When I was your age, man I was too fucked. Night after night after night I’d end up at this one shady ass club where they’d let me do whatever, get whatever, get as fucked as I possibly could. Bad choices, right?” Rin shrugs. He checks the clock. His shift begins in ten minutes. 

“Anyways, young adulthood. Filled with mostly two things; fucking up, and girls.” Rin can’t really vow for the second one, but he goes along with it. “Back to the shady club. One of the most repulsive places I have ever seen. But you know, the shadiest places bring out the worst of the best people.” Sasabe pauses to pour himself a second drink. Rin’s wondering what the fuck he did to deserve this. 

“There’s a girl. Or was. Beautiful, I swear to you. You ever seen a girl too beautiful you think she isn’t real?” Rin downs the rest of his drink to avoid answering. “Well that was her. She was at the club on Fridays and Sundays, this beautiful, smart girl.” Rin pours himself another drink while Sasabe’s engaged in his story. 

“She was going through a lot of shit, Rin. You know what it’s like- respect gone, rumors about you. People saying shit about you. Feel like nothing, right?” 

“Gee, thanks a fuck ton.” Rin grumbles into the edge of his glass. Sasabe shakes his head. 

“I saw it all. Every Friday and Sunday, I was there, just hugging the bar watching guys get all up in her space like she owed them something. She’d be smiling and everything because you know, it’s her job.

“I didn’t talk to her a lot. Once in a while, at the end of the night when everyone was too drunk to carry on anymore. She’d come to the bar to get paid, sit down next to me and pour herself a drink. I don’t even remember her name. Dunno if I ever asked her. But I did ask her something stupid.”

“What?” Rin’s suddenly intrigued, doesn’t know how or when or why he became invested in the story, but now he just needs to know where it’s going. 

“I asked her, ‘What’s a pretty girl like you doing something as shitty as this?’ And you know what she said to me? I can’t remember anything clearer from my youth than what she told me.

“She said, ‘I’m doing what other pretty girls do; making money so I can live from day to day. Come here, get paid, Buy food, pay bills, make my way through my classes and come back and do it all over again. Just doing it a different way. Am I so bad?’ 

“And I said, no. No you aren’t.” Sasabe sets the cup down, glass loud against the wooden surface of the desk. Rin’s not sure what to say. He thinks, thinks really hard, but isn’t really sure exactly what he’s been thinking about. 

“Is it so bad, Rin?” Sasabe’s looking at him, and it should be patronizing but it just. Isn’t.

“…Yeah. Yeah, it is so bad.” Rin turns his own empty cup over in his fingers, looks through the glass at the distorted image of his bare thigh meeting pleather. 

And Sasabe does what Rin least expects. 

He laughs. 

Like a full-blown straight from the gut hearty laugh. It’s the most sincere thing Rin’s heard in the last 3 months. 

“You’re right, RinRin. It is actually so bad. You know how it is. One night, she came to the bar after closing, mascara all down her face and red-eyed. Bartender was looking at her like he wanted to do something, but couldn’t. He handed her her money and she just bounced. I never saw her again. 

“Found out later some fuckin’ cumstain tried to pull some fast shit, so she knocked him over the head with a lamp or something, bossman finds out and fires her that night. The worst places do in the best people.” 

Sasabe stands from his seat, knees popping as he stretches. Rin doesn’t want to look up, doesn’t want to look anywhere but straight down into his empty glass. If this was supposed to be some form of inspirational speech or some shit to make him feel better, well.

“This place. It’s for you, not them. You’re not the problem here, get that? Don’t give a shit about the people standing out there on the other side of the stage, Rin. I know what it’s like to be fucking up. But you know, that girl, don’t wanna see more people get fucked over like her. Or like me. So I know you’re in all kinds of shit. Gonna make bad choices and get into more shit. But that’s safe here, you know?” 

Sasabe takes the glass from Rin’s hands and places it on the desk. 

“This place. It’s a good place, for good people, who may be doing their worst. You get what I’m saying?” 

And for the first time the entire night, Rin looks up instead of down. 

“Yeah. I think I do.”

 

It takes three months. Three months of tiptoeing through the dorm hallways covered in thick layers and the biggest coat he owns, thinking that if he covers himself with enough fabric, no one will be able to see him through it. As the weeks go by, Rin leaves a scarf on his bed, next time a sweater, then his sweatshirt, and finally the coat, until it’s almost March and Rin’s leaving the dorms at night twirling his keys on his fingers in nothing but an open button up shirt and a tank top. 

It’s grown to become a part of him, the chilly walk from the train station into the heart of the city. The Tokyo nightlife is just starting to turn up, bustling crowds pushing shoulder to shoulder, shouts and hollers and laughter bouncing off into the air. Rin looks up at the sky, and maybe it’s because he’s spent so much time looking at the gum on the sidewalk and the dirt on his shoes, but he’s never really noticed how bright the stars are at this time of night. 

_Splash Free!_ ’s been starting to make its name, Rin’s heard shit like “queerest club in the city” and “place is actually fucking clean I’m not afraid to sit on the toilet and take a shit if I need” to “bartender is pretty hot”. 

When Rin shows up for his shift, the line is already starting to curl around the side of the building, and doors don’t open for another half hour. He curves around to the back of the club, taking the side door reserved for employees.

He’s greeted by an overly-jovial Sasabe, grinning ear to ear with a garment bag in raised up in his right hand. 

Oh god, is what Rin has to think, because the last time he’d seen Sasabe so excited it had resulted in sweltering pleather and studs.

“Rinrin! I just got a new shipment in and this one SCREAMS you!” Rin isn’t sure what to make of that, not sure what “screams him” really entails. He scratches the back of his neck, opposite hand reaching out hesitantly to grasp at the garment bag. 

“Oh yeah, by the way, got some numbers run recently and you’re getting hot, Rin. People like you, so whatever it is you’re doing out there, keep it up. Rake it in, RinRin, rake it in.” Sasabe’s off with a wave, running out past the curtain to attend to whatever it is that strip club owners attend to. 

Rin unzips the garment bag and almost laughs. He’s gotten used to the ostentatious outfits he’s had to put on, but jesus christ. 

As he’s pulling the sheer pearl stockings over his legs and tugging the pristine white fabric over his head, all Rin can think is he damn better well be getting extra tips tonight. 

* * *

“Yoooomazaki you made it!” 

“Don’t ever say that again.” 

There’s a smack on his back, one that isn’t warranted or called for; it’s been exactly three minutes and Sousuke is already tired. 

There are eight of them out, including him.  That’s seven more people than he’d prefer to be with in this moment, and the fact that he is  being seen in public with them makes it significantly worse. 

He has absolutely no idea how or why or when he agreed to this, but Sousuke is sure, how ever it happened, he was definitely coerced by unfair means or possibly even intense blackmail. 

So he’s here now, wherever here is. The level of dude-bro is so intense, like he can smell the musk of too-strong mens cologne, can practically see the beads of gel glimmering in Minami’s hair. They’re so loud, Sousuke thinks as he looks up at at the blinding neons hanging overhead so he can, at the very least, figure out where the fuck he is. 

It takes literally less than two seconds for Sousuke to make The Realization. 

He wonders if the other seven people standing in line with him have also had this Realization. 

Judging by the conversation at hand, of which Sousuke has caught key phrases like “smack that” and “ass so fine” and “pound it” he comes to the conclusion that no, probably not. 

 

“Congratulations on your gayness.” Sousuke says as the group settles into a round table, shoulder to shoulder and completely too close for comfort. 

“Dude what???” Minami says, eyes narrowing into little slits like he’s trying to read something incredibly small. “The fuck you going on about? What the hell is gay about a strip club?” 

And Sousuke just points. He counts the seconds of actual stunned silence that engulfs their group as the Realization hits.

There are five stages of grief, Sousuke remembers that from the psych class he took last semester.

“No, no…god NO COME ON! There’s NO WAY.” It starts with denial, Sousuke thinks as he props his head up in his palm, watching the other seven bicker about how its TOTALLY a lie, eight aggressively heterosexual dudes are totally NOT spending the night at a gay strip club. 

“Who picked this place?! Was it you Iwa?! I mean, not that that’s a problem or anything but you could have SAID something first! Jesus…” The denial converts to loud bickering, voices raising and starting to get shrill. Anger, Sousuke takes note of, and Minami is tilting his head up to the ceiling. 

“Please god…All I wanted….Was some hot ass tonight…” Sousuke’s brows crease together, as he watches Minami literally bargain with god for nicely shaped ass.  
“I’ll never…get a chance at good ass…if I don’t get it tonight.” He slumps onto the table, arms around his head. Iwashizumi pats his head in condolences, and the team falls into a depressed silence. 

Sousuke sits back, amusement tugging at the corner of his lips. He’s waiting for that last stage, the one where they embrace it, embrace the fact that-

“Well I mean…as long as we’re here….”  
And he crosses his legs, eyes sliding shut in satisfaction. Yes, he thinks, accept it. 

Sousuke flags down drinks because “Yo-mazaki looks like 34 no one’s gonna card him for shit.” He doesn’t know whether to be offended or not, but he takes Minami’s card regardless and crosses the club to the bar. 

The bartender is way too into his job, Sousuke thinks as he watches the cocktail shaker lose all shape and form, blurring into a straight up gray fuzz. He watches nicely manicured hands pour two delicate drinks, dark indigo in color, into two poco grande glasses. He leans in close, breath almost fogging the surface of the glass. He leans back, nods, and reaches for a lemon, peeling out two immaculate twists and carefully placing them in the drinks. A server comes and picks up the tray nearly immediately, and the two absurdly perfect drinks disappear into the bowels of the club.

“Can I help you, sir?” 

Sousuke pauses. He wasn’t even told what to order. He flips Minami’s credit card around in his hand, entertaining the idea of purchasing the most expensive bottle of red wine feasibly possible at Minami’s expense. But he considers how much of it will end up in porcelain at the end of the night, and decides no, the wine shouldn’t be wasted in vain that way. 

“Just beer for the table over there. Whatever you got. And a round of shots. Keep them coming whenever you think.” A perfectly arched brow disappears into indigo locks, like “excuse me, but what did you just order?” 

“Is that all?” He says it like he’s expecting something else.

“Yeah. That’s all.” Sousuke thinks he hears the click of a tongue as manicured fingers snatch the plastic from his hand. The deed’s done, Sousuke’s ushered away, and for some reason he feels like a disappointment. 

When he reaches the table again, the team’s gotten past the acceptance stage and transcended into fits of full blown cackling. He’s missed something terrible, and Sousuke isn’t sure if it’s to his benefit or will come to bite him in the ass. 

He slides back into the table, pushes the card back over to Minami, who gives him one glimpse from behind his hand, before burying his face back into his elbow and letting out a howl. 

Oh, it’s definitely going to bite him in the ass. 

Sousuke rolls his eyes. 

“Hey, Sou-chan, we’ve got a GREAT surprise for you.” Iwashizumi says with a sneer, bearing the most unpleasant smile Sousuke has ever seen. 

“Fantastic.” The drinks arrive, pitchers and shot glasses clunking down on the hard wood. The boys hoot, and Sousuke is almost sure the’ll get kicked out right there, because what kind of 21 year olds hoot when beer shows up at the table. Sousuke tips the waiter largely and they exchange knowing eyebrows raises. He disappears back into the crowd, wedging between sweaty bodies. 

He leans against the seat, knocking the shot back as he stares off in the general direction of the stage. The snickering heightens again but Sousuke adapts quickly and has conditioned himself to ignore it. 

They’re not close to the stage, but they’re not far either. He can make dark red contrasting angrily against the pristine white of- damn. 

Sousuke sips at his beer, amusement and entertainment beginning to brew in his head. He supposes Minami was right; he’s stuck here for the night, so he might as well try to enjoy what he can. 

Even from this far away, Sousuke can see how hard he’s trying. Little dress hikes up toned legs, all dressed in sheer pearly white. They carry him around the pole with a little strut, strut, strut, and Sousuke almost laughs when his back arches, fingers just dancing over the bare skin of his thighs. Ass pressed up against the pole, his head’s thrown back, red blurring like a blood splatter. There’s hooting, and it takes Sousuke a little bit to realize it’s coming from their table. 

“Encore! Encore!!!” It’s Iwashizumi, clanking his empty cup against the tabletop, completely and utterly engrossed by what’s happening on stage. 

“Dude, shut the fuck up he’ll be here soon anyways.” Minami pours Iwashizumi another drink, and Sousuke almost misses the busser who sweeps up their glasses. 

“You getting a show, Iwashizumi?” Sousuke asks from behind his glass. There’s the collective smirk again, spreading across 7 indistinguishable faces. Sousuke raises a brow like “what am I missing?”

“Oh look, here he comes now.” And they’re all standing up from the table, slinking away before Sousuke can even say “the fuck”. 

“So. Sousuke. That’s what they said your name was.” 

The white is more blinding up close. It’s immaculate, like it’s begging to be stained. A hip cocks, fabric creasing at the dip of his waist. Sousuke looks up, and he catches a face that’s all teeth with no bite. Slim lips form into a long, tight pout. Pointy nose is upturned, like he’s scowling, just a little bit. Eyes are so crimson and dark, with little pieces cut out in chunks and Sousuke wonders exactly what they’ve seen to end up that way. 

“Well?” He hears tapping below, and Sousuke’s greeted with patent red stilettos clacking away on the club tile. 

“Well what?” Is what Sousuke asks because is this really what’s happening right now? He glances over at the table the other seven have slunk away to, and there they are, peering over the edge of the booth like they’re inconspicuous or something. 

Sousuke sighs, head lulling all the way back to look up at the ceiling. 

“So are you gonna let me? They paid me already, so I could just stand here for the next two songs and you can keep staring at the ceiling.” Sousuke rolls his head to the side, brows knitting together.

“You talk to everyone like this?” He looks down, dark red framed in thick lashes. Lips pull into a toothy little grin, and Sousuke feels strangely endeared. A hand reaches up and scratches at the back of his neck. 

“Nah. Never. But you seemed like you weren’t up for any fluffy shit from anybody.” He tugs on the hem of his dress, as if that’d be make it miraculously longer. “And besides. I know your friends put you up to this. Hahaha, hilarious so fuckin’ homolarious. Whatever though, money is money.” 

There’s something about him that makes Sousuke feel something. He can’t place it, but he can see it. Sousuke’s never been looked at directly. It’s hard, he guesses. Probably mostly his fault, for being so purposely off putting and aggressively alienating. 

But here it is, crimson burning down like they’re searching for something. 

Sousuke wonders if he’s got what he’s looking for. 

He’s not sure when he makes the decision. It happens between swaying hips and bare thighs. 

He tries so hard, Sousuke thinks, pristine white fabric just begging to be dirtied. He watches as his spine curls, ass out like he’s trying to compensate for something. There’s some weird sensation tugging at the corner of his lips, like he wants to- no, that’s absurd-

“You’re smiling. That’s fucking weird. People don’t smile during lap dances.” He’s facing forwards again, trailing hands down the front of the dress, popping buttons one by one between his fingers. 

“I’m not.” Sousuke insists, because he certainly is NOT. 

“Hn, whatever. The dress is open now, defined chest muscles with skin just as pristine and white as the fabric. It pisses Sousuke off the same exact way, and he’s not sure how to describe it. 

“Do you have a name?” 

“Doesn’t everybody?” Fingers start threading through hair, and Sousuke’s fiddling with the chair cushion beneath him.

“What’s yours?” 

He hesitates, looking off to the side like he’s thinking. 

“What, can’t remember?”

“Oh, shut the fuck up.” Those eyes are back again, searching for something. “It’s Rin.”

“Why Rin?” Is that like a thing? Girly names?

“Huh?” Rin looks blank, mouth agape just a little and Sousuke can’t help but notice the little pointy teeth peeking out from between his lips. 

“Oh. Oh. Rin.” He lets out a light laugh, breathy and fleeting and all air. “Well, I don’t talk to everyone like this, but that’s my name. Rin.” 

“Rin.” Sousuke tries it out.  
Sure. It’s easy. Sousuke can remember it 

Sousuke isn’t quite sure when he decides he wants to remember. 

 

How many times does it take for something to constitute as a habit, again? Rin’s sure he knows the answer to this, looked it up to prove a point to Haru that no, he does NOT have a protein shake problem, he can literally stop whenever he wants. 

“Ah, fuck, yeah…” This time, it’s in the communal showers. Which is gross, absolutely disgustingly gross. But it is 4 AM in the wake of Sunday morning, and Rin has his hands and face flat against the tile wall. In the back of his mind, he wonders if this could potentially get him fired, bringing home a client after work or something. 

Fingers pull out and they’re replaced by a wet trail that chases out any unrelated thought out of Rin’s head and down the drain with everything else. 

“Sou- what the fu- what are you- jesus, fuck!” Oh god, that’s weird- no, fuck no stop-

“Oh shut up. We’re in a shower. It’s clean.” Rin just whines, because he’s like no, absolutely not that is not where your mouth goes what the fuck, but also-

Sousuke’s tongue swirls around the rim of Rin’s entrance, pressing in and-

“AH- mmhn-!” Loud, jesus christ, loud. It echoes all over the bathroom, bouncing off the walls, into the stalls, and back through their ears. 

“Shh, Rin, shh.” There’s fingers pressing against his lips and Rin has no sense of what is and what isn’t at this point, and he doesn’t even hesitate to pull them right into his mouth, sucking around moans and whimpers that could wake RAD services and lead to further embarrassments. 

Sousuke weaves his free hand to palm at the flat of Rin’s stomach. His knees and jaw are aching, and as much of a blessing it is to bury himself nose deep, he knows this needs to end soon. He reaches around, grasps, tugs and-

“Ouch! What the fuck?” Sousuke pulls away from between Rin’s thighs, whining muffled out by fingers. “Did you just bite me?” The hand’s pulled away, and Rin gasps, saliva dribbling down his chin and he slumps his head and breathes. 

“Don’t bitch at me- j-just finish what you started, jesus…” Sousuke sighs and closes his eyes, shaking his head just a little bit. Water trickles down his hair onto his face, collecting on his upper lip

There’s fingers at his mouth this time, long thin fingers wiping away droplets of water.

“You’re smiling again, fucking weirdo.”  
“I am not smiling.” Rin’s climbing into his lap, slick and wet with shower water, saliva and pre-come, and Sousuke wonders how long he has to do this until it becomes a habit. 

 

“We go on dates.”  
“No, but like, An actual date date.”

“We go on those all the time.” A thwack to the shoulder and Sousuke grimaces.

“Eating my ass in the shower doesn’t count as a date.”

“That’s not what you said last week or the week before.” Another thwack. 

“What I’m saying is. Let’s go out. Like you know, normal people?” Sousuke stares Rin head on, taking in the good old nurse outfit (that, thanks to Sousuke, is now no longer pristinely white, thank god) complete with the stockings and stilettos. He’s certain what Rin’s asking for is impossible.

“We’re not normal people, Rin.” Sousuke leans back on the couch, Rin tucking himself under his arm. 

“Well I mean I guess not, normal people don't eat ass in the shower at 4AM. But we can pretend, can’t we?” 

Sousuke hesitates, think about what an Actual Date implies, what kinds of people go on Actual Dates. 

“Maybe.” 

Sousuke isn't good at playing pretend.

 

 

Rin practically drop kicks the last box into Sousuke’s van. 

“Fuck yeah! Fuck you, Fuckboi Mansion! Fuck you, shitty fucking bathroom that clogs every time you take a goddamn shit, and definitely fuck you, Nakagawa, I hope your boss staples your hands to your desk!” Rin hops in the passenger seat of the van and let’s out an insanely like WOO-HOO, which Sousuke assumes he’s picked up from Sasabe. 

“And fuck you too, Sousuke. Fuck you on every surface of this goddamn apartment as soon as we get in.” Rin’s kicking his feet on the dashboard, turning the radio up until it’s rattling the speakers, and he hopes Rin can’t see him maybe smiling. 

 

Rin’s heard about the honeymoon period. Heard about it from his sister, that one time she said Chigusa was dating that guy and they were “just in that honeymoon phase, they’ll be in and out in a couple months, she’ll realize it soon enough.” 

Rin’s never really thought about shit like that, because it’s never been important, but-

He’s staring at all the shit Sousuke’s left in the bathroom. Clothes everywhere. Towels aren’t even hung. Worst of all- the ring in the tub. Fucker took a bath and didn't wipe the tub down. 

“Sousuke! You fucking slob! Clean that shit up!” Rin stomps out of the bathroom, towel wrapped around his waist. Sousuke pads down the hall, tooth brush stuck between his teeth.

“-ll ge’ -t l’r, r’lax.” Rin crosses his arms, scowl deep and cut into his brow. 

“No, jesus no! You never pick your shit up and I just toss it into your room and then you STILL don’t pick it up like what the fuck?” Sousuke frowns, which looks significantly less intimidating with toothpaste frothing around his lips.

“It’s no’ y’r problem i’ it? ’s my shit.” Rin groans. 

“It’s OUR apartment! Not yours!” Rin throws his hands up and re-enters the bathroom. “What the fuck ever, Sousuke.”  
The bathroom door slams, and Sousuke wonders when things became “ours”. 

 

 

If he looks back, he can pinpoint all the times he could have figured it out. He’d punch his past self, if he could, slap the shit out of him and be like “save yourself the pain”. 

But it’s too late now. 

They have separate rooms, but when do they ever use them? They’ve been sharing the same bed for months, enough months to lose count. Rin’s lost track of time, lost track of anything in his life. 

So much Sousuke.

Is what he thought. 

But now…

He should have sensed it, from the mood, to his face. Rin should have known. 

Rin wonders all the other things he should have figured out and known that he just lost track of. 

Sousuke reaches up, pushing stray locks of hair behind Rin’s ear. Fingers trail across his cheek, hand settling to cup his face, like it needs to be cradled like an infant. 

“You look nice.”  Rin flushes, crimson to match his eyes and hair. There’s so much red, and Sousuke’s afraid that-

“Stop it, I can’t focus.” Rin lifts himself up and slides back down, letting out a satisfied “yeah” when he feels Sousuke bottom out. 

He looks nice, yeah, but Sousuke wants nothing more than the ability to look away. 

“What’s wrong? Does it feel okay?” Actually, Sousuke thinks, it feels like I’m about to-

“Yeah. It feels fine.” -fuck up everything that I didn't know we worked for. 

Rin grins a little bit, toothy and unreserved and it hits Right There because Sousuke just doesn’t know how to. 

Rin’s moving faster, like he’s trying to impress. He’s trying too hard again, trying so hard just to get something Sousuke knows he can’t give. 

This is fucked up, Sousuke thinks, so fucked up, and yet-

“Ah, god- right there, fuck, Sousuke-”

He’s let it go on for this long, let it fester, let it set in.

He takes a hold of Rin’s hips and presses hard, pulling him down harder, harder harder, hoping that maybe, if he makes Rin scream loud enough, makes Rin so fucking mindless, he won’t say it, because he can Feel it happening, like it’s going to come out right-

“Sousuke- ah, I-“  


No, no god no. 

“I love you,” 

Sousuke’s no good at playing pretend. 

 

It all starts because Rin Matsuoka is fucking unhireable. He thought he was treading open water then- but now. 

“What the fuck do you MEAN you can’t stay here?!” Sousuke’s got his bags on his shoulders, coat buttoned up to his chin, like he’s trying to hid away from whatever it is they need to deal with. 

“Just can’t.” 

“No, no! Don’t you fucking give me that! I’m worth more than that, you piece of shit.” Sousuke tilts his head back, looks up at the ceiling and breathes. 

“You think you're worth a fucking thing? What the hell do I owe you?” Rin’s freezes. It’s like being told someone’s died. You need to hear it again to even register that it’s been said. 

“What.”

“What the fuck do I owe you, Rin? What the fuck do I owe the stripper my friends paid for some sick laughs?” 

It tastes so bitter. Sousuke feels the bile rising in the back of his throat, it feels so gross, he knows it and yet-

“The fuck? Excuse me? What the fuck?!” Rin’s shouting, yelling, screaming. “What, is that what you’ve thought of me? This whole fucking time?! Even when you told me that-” The actual realization that crosses Rin’s face is too painful for Sousuke to even look at. 

It’s all red, red hair, red eyes, red cheeks, red stinging veins popping under tears Sousuke would be happy to drown in. 

“You never said-“  


“I’m leaving, Rin.” 

And that’s how he leaves. All his belongings tucked into two duffle bags on either shoulder. It’s everything he came with, everything he’s had, and yet, he feels like he’s leaving empty handed. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> okay we'll be back to what you were all actually waiting for next time haha


	6. dont be surprised when you get bent over

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> drunk virgins deviriginize drunkly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> please just go read art commune instead of this shit if you haven't already  
> this update is shit  
> enjoy your stumbling drunk disgusting queers  
> soz for the wait <3

“I feel wrong drinking this Haru…” The glass clinks against the kitchen counter, and Haru immediately refills it the minute it’s out of Makoto’s hand.

“Why?”

“Because you- we. Stole it.” Haru knocks the shot back this time, throat burning something excellent, and fills the glass again.

“’S’fine, Kisumi can buy another one, that rich motherfucker.” Kisumi, the type to use expensive vodka as ice packs when packing sandwiches for picnics. Kisumi, the type to not notice when expensive vodka goes missing. Kisumi, the type to drive Haru so goddamn insane, Makoto had to drag him out of the house before he made the half-drunk decision to write “FUCK YOU KISUMI” on his couch in piss.

Makoto had managed to get him to leave, but not before he could grab the first bottle of alcohol he saw sitting out, unopened, unguarded, clearly asking to be abused and cleaned out before the night turns morning.

Kisumi, the type to invite him and Rin to a party. Kisumi, the type to invite Some Asshole to the same party, fully knowing what the situation is. Kisumi, the type to set this kind of shit up and let Haru reap the consequences.

Haru doesn’t even know who Some Asshole is, and he’s already relatively irritated with him, with Rin, with Kisumi, with everyone.

That was Haru’s line of logical thought when he swiped the bottle off the counter, grabbed Makoto’s arm and lugged him out of the house onto the empty streets.

His head was still light with festivities from earlier in the evening, taste of at least five different kinds of alcohol deep in the back of his throat. His asshole still felt sticky, his shirt was probably stained, and he felt strangely chilly, chiller than he had felt making his way to this shit party earlier in the night.

Fabric was thrown on him ungracefully. Haru almost tripped

“Sorry! You looked cold. And I get warm easily, so I mean.” The fabric was soft on Haru’s skin, and he found himself suddenly overcome with the desire to bundle up in the plaid, oversized piece of clothing and fall asleep. Right there. On the street.

“Thanks.” Haru mumbled, slipping his arms through the sleeves and pulling the flannel tight over his frame. The sleeves hung far past his hands, and he tried to bunch the fabric up to his elbows. They slide back down to skim against his thighs, and Haru flapped his arms in frustration, sleeves flopping in the air with the movement.

He looked up, Makoto’s eyes fixed on the big-ass flannel.

“What? Do you want it back?” Makoto flinched, like he’d been startled by something.

“What? NO! I mean- no, it’s okay! You’re cold so you should. Wear it. Definitely. It’s totally okay, please wear it…” Haru blinks.

“…okay.”

And so he wears it. Out on the streets, into the train station, on the train home, and through the doorway to his apartment.

The entire way home, Makoto clutched the sleeve tight between his fingers.

“I don’t really like walking around in the dark…Sorry, I know, that’s really lame.”

Haru doesn’t really mind.

He’s still wearing the flannel as he’s pouring shots, sleeves dunking messily in the vodka spilled across the countertop. As the night grows later, Haru notices that more alcohol ends up on the counter than in the glasses.

“Haruuu, stop it.” Makoto’s whining, and Haru should find it annoying. Large hands wrap around the neck of the bottle and pull it off to the side. Haru tries to pull back, realizes it requires way too much effort, and lets the weight of the glass leave his hands. He presses his head against the countertop and groans.

“Fuck this.” He rolls his head to the side, flushed cheek cooling in a shallow puddle of residual vodka.

“Hm?” Makoto hums, like he’s entertaining Haru’s patheticness.

“This.”

“What’s this?”

“You’re here, and I don’t even know you, but you’re here when my roommate, my best friend, isn’t. That’s kinda fucked, isn’t it?” Haru’s slurring sentences together, listening to his own filter drown as potential alcohol poisoning consumes him, but he doesn’t care, for some reason, because even if he should, and has no reason why he should, something about Makoto makes him-

“I guess a little bit. But would it be less fucked if you did know me?” Haru lifts his head very, very, slowly. He props his cheek in his hand and stares at Makoto.

“Maybe.” Haru feels himself leaning forward in his chair, and somewhere his past-sober self is saying “what the fuck” because actually, what the fuck is he doing. He can feel his body heat rising from his skin, and Haru wants to share it.

The stool beneath Makoto squeaks against the kitchen linoleum as he shifts his weight forward, and Haru can see his throat quivering beneath his skin.

“Do you want me to know you?” Haru breathes, words heavy with the weight of 40 proof.

“Do you want me to want to know you?” Haru hesitates, because he’s drunk enough for that to not make sense without breaking it down slowly. His lips twitch as he opens his mouth to answer.

Haru doesn’t know how to want things.

“Yeah.”

Haru’s words are heavy with the weight of stolen alcohol and bad times.

Makoto makes it easy to lift them.

 

This time, their lips meet slow. Because they can’t seem to find each other, mouths missing once, twice, until Makoto’s giggling and Haru’s letting out exasperated noises from the back of his throat.

“Slow down.” Makoto says, hand reaching up to cup Haru’s cheek.

“No time.” Makoto laughs, light and airy.

“We have all the time, unless you’re planning on going somewhere.”

Haru pulls back this time, stares at Makoto like he’s said something he’s never thought about.

“No, I’m not.” That’s not what Haru’s worried about.

“Good, I don’t think I am either, unless you want me to.” And Haru reaches out before he can stop himself, grabs onto Makoto’s arm and squeezes hard, looks at him wide eyed and telling, because he won’t say it out loud, that’s too vulnerable even in this shit-faced state, but the last thing he needs right now is-

Makoto laughs.

“Okay. I won’t go anywhere.”

Haru relaxes. He feels his shoulders drop, spine wind down, and his eyelids drop. He leans forward in his stool, rising from the seat and pushing into Makoto’s lap. The stool legs screech against the linoleum, leaving black skid marks on the ugly white tile, but Haru doesn’t care, Haru doesn’t know how to care about anything except the warmth on his skin and how much he needs to share it.

Makoto’s chair wobbles, and he throws a hand back at the counter to keep them balanced.

“Haru, this is so dangerous, I’m gonna drop you-” Haru glares, because who the fuck does Makoto think he is like, he willingly climbed into his lap and straddled him, who complains about that? That’s irritating for some reason, Haru’s too drunk to fully understand why, so he grabs Makoto’s face between his fingers and pulls his chin down.

“Shut up.” Haru slurs from behind his teeth. He hears Makoto whine, strained in the back of his throat, and Haru finds that interesting.

Haru bites into Makoto’s mouth, sloppy and uncoordinated. He feels Makoto tense beneath him, arms unmoving, barely breathing. So annoying, Haru thinks. Too polite, too nice.

“Don’t just sit there.”

“I-can I. Touch you?” Haru pulls back and makes a face, something crossed between disbelief and amusement.

“You had half your hand in my ass like three hours ago.” Makoto groans and hides his face behind his hands. Cute, Haru thinks. Kind of annoying, but cute.

“Don’t say things like that!” Makoto whines, eyes peaking between parted fingers. He slides his hands down his face and hovers them awkwardly above Haru’s waist.

“Um. Is it-”

Haru grunts and pushes Makoto’s hands down.

“We’re not at the club. You’re allowed.” Makoto laughs nervously, arms stiff and hands unmoving. Haru’s getting fed up. He has no idea what time it is, there’s more alcohol than oxygen in his blood in this very moment, and his partner of choice for the evening is too polite to feel him up.

What the fuck is wrong with Makoto, is what Haru wants to know.

Despite it all, Haru feels himself wanting to-

“Why are you laughing, what did I do?” Makoto looks scandalized, eyebrows furrowed and lips in a downturned pout.

“Are you making fun of me?”

Haru blames the drinks when he lets out a giggle, lips pulling over his teeth in what could be called-

“I guess you can make fun of me, it’s nice to see you smile.” That floors Haru, face flattening back into its usual expression.

“I’m not smiling.” This time, Makoto smiles.

“Okay.”

And then Makoto leans forward, slow, soft, warm. He wraps arms around Haru’s waist, tight and secure, like he’s keeping him from falling away.

Makoto has chapped lips, Haru realizes, like he’s always chewing on them when he’s nervous. The skin is rough and dented, but Haru doesn’t mind. He doesn’t mind anything right now, not with the way that Makoto is so careful, gentle, simple.

He lets Makoto fumble into his mouth, lets him tickle his lips with the tip of his tongue.

“Sorry…” Makoto mumbles against his lips. “I’ve never done this- well I mean, other than. You know. Sorry.”

“Shh. That’s okay. I like it.” And he does, he’s never been treated like this, been kissed like this. It feels so easy, and Haru isn’t used to easy.

“You sure? Because we can-”

Haru doesn’t want to hear it.

He wraps his legs right around Makoto’s waist, ankles locking at the small of his back. Makoto squeaks, face flushing up so warm Haru can feel it.

“Carry me.”

“To where?” Haru raises a brow, like I can’t believe your asking that? Makoto looks at him, head tilted to one side, blank and clueless.

Haru just stares at him, because god, he’ll get it at some point, right?

Makoto stares back, because no, he won’t.

Haru sighs, and grinds his hips down, rubbing just hard enough to make Makoto understand.

“Nn- fuck, don’t- oh! You mean?”

“God.”

“Sorry…”

“Just walk.”

“Which way?”

“This is an apartment with one hallway. The last door on the right.”

And finally, Makoto stands, lifts Haru up like it’s nothing. He even lets out a little gasp at how easily he’s moved, and Makoto makes his way down the hallway.

“Can I do something?” And Haru groans, because-

“Yes. You don’t need to ask.”

“Sorry!” Another groan.

“Just go ahead.”

And Haru’s pressed up against something hard, slammed back so his head knocks against his hallway wall.

“What the f-” Lips, teeth, hard, desperate, Haru’s vision swims behind his own eyelids, head spinning, breath gone, the contrast is real, sudden, and he can’t tell what he likes more.

Haru whines, tightens his legs around Makoto’s back and pulls him closer. Makoto grunts from above, tilting Haru’s head to the side and sucking along the edge of his jawline.

“Ah-wh-?! Makoto, what- nn…Ow!” Makoto bites too hard, right on top of his collar bone, and it makes him snap his head up, like a puppy caught doing something wrong. His eyes turn down, lips quivering, and Haru suddenly feels bad for saying anything.

“Oh! Sorry, sorry- I got. Sorry! You’re just- I’m sorry, I’ve been trying really hard not to do anything but I mean I’m still a little bit- you’re also- no that’s my fault but-” Haru wants to cover his ears, but he lifts his hand and presses it to Makoto’s mouth instead.

“It’s okay. It was nice. Just be careful.” Makoto looks absolutely hurt, devastated, and Haru wants to pet through his hair and say-

“Sorry for startling you. It’s okay, really.”

“Should we st-”

“No.” Haru’s absolute. “Just.” He nods his head towards the door, and Makoto flushes again. This weird polarity of Makoto that Haru’s just seen interests him, it’s almost like a game.

Haru’s having fun with it.

“If you want to keep going, too, that is.” Makoto starts nodding, keeps nodding, won’t stop nodding.

“Yeah. Yes. Absolutely. Please?” Haru throws his arms around Makoto’s neck.

“Bed.”

Somehow, Makoto gets the door open with Haru still in his arms.

 

At first, Makoto thinks he’s entered an empty room. It’s dark, windows drawn shut behind dark curtains. As his eyes adjust, he makes out the outline of a mattress on the floor and a bedside table.

“Sorry for the mess.”

Haru’s funny, Makoto thinks. He likes it.

Makoto lays Haru down across the mattress, easy, gentle, because treating Haru roughly is something he can’t do again.

“The light is over there.” Makoto makes out the outline of Haru’s slim arm and pointed finger, gesturing to the bedside table lamp. He reaches forward and clicks the switch , dim yellow light harsh against both of their too-drunk eyes. They groan, rubbing the heels of the palms against their eyelids.

“Maybe stealing that vodka wasn’t a good idea…” Makoto tries, trying to blink away the harshness of the lamp.

“It’s always a good idea.” Haru mumbles, standing from the mattress. He hears the teeth of a zipper come apart, and its like an alarm against Makoto’s ears.

“What are you doing?” Makoto asks, stammering the words together into one almost unintelligible sentence.

He turns around, and he sees bare legs, pearly and iridescent in the cheap bedroom light. He presses his lips together, watching the hem of his flannel dance on top of smooth thighs, and it suddenly occurs to Makoto exactly what he’s gotten himself into.

It’s Awful.

It’s Absurd.

It’s Amazing.

Haru is Amazing.

“Taking my clothes off.” Haru says flatly, slipping the flannel off one arm. Makoto scrambles forward and catches the sleeve before he can stop himself.

“No! I mean. Can you.” Makoto has no idea what he’s asking. He has no idea what he’s doing. He knows exactly what he wants, which is horrifying, because he’s horrified by wanting, because this is stupid, this is the definition of stupid, the opposite of the safe, easy, ordinary life Makoto’s managed to keep constant.

“Can I?”

“I-uh. Um.” Haru’s brow furrows.

“Are you okay?”

“Yes.”

“So no.”

“How did you know that?” Haru shrugs.

“You think too much. It makes you easy to read.” Haru sits down on the mattress, thigh brushing up against Makoto’s. He swallows. The red looks so nice, contrasting against that unbelievably pale flesh that probably glows under moonlight.

“Sorry. You’re drunk. I’m fucked. We should probably not.” Makoto’s face falls. That’s not the answer he wanted.

“No, I. I.” He doesn’t know how to say it.

“You?”

“I. Want. To. I just.” Don’t understand. You are so much, and I’m not enough.

“Just?”

“Why?”

“Because.”

It’s one word that means nothing. But Makoto looks at Haru’s face, looks into those eyes that Makoto thinks he can read his name in, and maybe Makoto needs this.

Needs something different.

Needs someone to tell him he’s different.

“Me?” And Haru nods.

“It’s been you all night.”

And Makoto relaxes.

“Will you show me how?” Because in the end, Makoto doesn’t know, but for Haru, he’s willing to learn.

“We’ll figure it out together.”

And Makoto smiles, wide and to the tips of his ears. He likes that.

“Together.”

Haru nods again.

“Don’t be nervous. It’s okay.” Makoto grins sheepishly.

“Pretty people make me nervous.” Haru’s skin dusts pink, and Makoto loves it. Haru turns his head away.

“I’m going to take the rest of my clothes off.”

Makoto almost says “please.”

“Should I, too?”

“Not yet. Just sit there”

Makoto’s happy to.

Haru steps away from the mattress and stands a few feet in front of Makoto. He follows the too-long sleeves as Haru lifts his arms to pop the buttons on the flannel. He likes the way Haru’s fingers move, slender and precise, as he trails them down the front of the fabric until the shirt is fully unbuttoned.

He must have been making a strange face when the shirt falls to the floor, because Haru looks at him, amused.

“You almost look like you didn’t want me to take your shirt off.”

“Um.” Makoto pales.

“Nasty.”

“Sorry…”  Haru shakes his head before he pulls his own tshirt over his head. Makoto wants to reach forward, run his hands over the flat of his stomach, between the bones of his ribs, nip the juts of his hips, kiss between his collar bones, he wants to do anything and everything he can, as long as it’s Haru.

“You want me to put it back on?”

“UM.” Makoto sweats. Images flash through his head. He shifts on the mattress. Suddenly, wearing jeans hurts.

And so Haru turns around and bends over, picking up the flannel from the ground. Makoto inhales, trying to not look at the swell of Haru’s ass raised in the air, but like. He can only be so polite.

“I never thought someone would tell me to put clothes back on.” Haru turns back to face him, flannel buttoned up to his mid chest, one bare shoulder peaking out of the plaid.

Makoto swallows.

“Come here? Please?” The tips of his fingers are tingling, his hands feel empty, his body feels too cold.

“Be patient.” Haru hooks fingers beneath the the edge of the flannel, and he pulls slow, back arching as Makoto watches with eyes wide like saucers. Black briefs touch the carpet, and Haru’s left in just the startling red of his plaid flannel.

Red isn’t Haru’s color, Makoto knows.

But Makoto wants to believe this is the only red that will ever work for Haru.

“Do you want me?” It’s sudden, and also a stupid question. So stupid, Makoto thinks he must have imagined it. But when he doesn’t answer, Haru asks again.

“Do you?”

“Of course.” Makoto says it in absolute, because yes, yes. Wants him so much, Makoto wishes there was a word that meant “I want you so much my hands want to come off and run to touch you.”

“Where?”

“Everywhere.”

Haru steps forward, toes pointed all delicate and dainty.

He inches forward, and Makoto swallows because he can almost feel him, almost taste him, almost feel the warmth of Haru’s skin against his.

Haru steps forward.

And eats shit.

It happens so suddenly, Makoto can’t stop himself. The elastic of Haru’s underwear catches around his ankle, yanking him straight to the ground. His foot slips against the carpet, and maybe one inch to the left, Haru could have his head cracked open against the corner of his night stand.

He isn’t though, just face flat in the carpet with the red of Makoto’s flannel gathered up above his bare ass. Makoto should be worried, there’s some little soberness left in him that is.

But the stolen vodka kicks in at the worst time, and Makoto can’t stop it.

It rips out of his mouth in this ugly howl that Makoto doesn’t recognize as his own voice. He shoves his entire fist into his mouth because, holy shit, oh my god, what the fuck

“Shut. The fuck. Up.” Haru groans into the carpet, body unmoving, ass out.

“Sorry, oh my god, sorry- do you need h-”

“No, you just need to shut up and stop looking at me.”

“Okay!” Makoto covers his face with his hands, and he hears grumbling and shuffling from beneath him. He doesn’t move his hands until he feels weight in his lap and warmth on his chest.

“You okay?” Makoto asks, genuinely concerned. He rubs a thumb across Haru’s forehead, feeling for any bumps or unsightly blemishes.

“I’m fine. Forget it happened. Never talk about it again.”

“Your butt is cute.” Makoto thinks at this point, he can’t possibly do or say anything worse.

“Are we gonna fuck, or are you just going to say stupid shit while I do stupid shit all night?” Makoto shrugs.

“Anything is fine, I like spending time with you.” Haru stares at him, incredulous.

“You’re disgusting.”

Somehow, Makoto is okay with being told that.

He runs a hand down Haru’s thighs and he worries oh god, are my hands clammy? What if they feel gross? He pauses, fingertips barely skimming on the skin above Haru’s knee.

“For the love of fuck.” Haru hisses through his teeth.

“Sorry, sorry, I’m just-” There’s hands on his shoulders forcing him down, locking him against the creaking mattress. Weight shifts above him, knees pinned on either side of Makoto’s thighs. Hips grind down, aggressive and impatient, and Makoto doesn’t know what to do but whine.

“Stop saying sorry.” Makoto groans, head rolled back against the pillow. He throws arms over his face, because he’s so helpless it’s embarrassing.

“It hurts, Haru…” And it does, Makoto has no idea how long he’s been hard, way too long, but it’s not like he’ll admit he’s been fighting a hard-on since Haru draped his tiny frame in his flannel.

“Your fault for stalling all night.” Haru leans down, wobbly and unbalanced, and tucks his head in the crook of Makoto’s neck. He nips at his ear, breath wet and hot and close. He palms down the front of Makoto’s chest, fumbles blindly with his pants, nearly tears the zipper off in frustration, and yanks Makoto free from the hell that is his too-tight jeans.

Makoto moans the minute he feels cool air against his swollen cock, because jesus, he doesn’t even want to look because the sight would just be embarrassing.

There’s zero movement from above. Makoto panics. Clearly he’s done something wrong.

“What? Are you okay? Do we need to stop?” He pulls his arms away from his face and sits up too fast. Nausea waves over his body, and in the back of his mind Makoto vows to never drink again.

“Wow.” It occurs to Makoto Haru isn’t even looking at him, but staring directly between his legs. Makoto burns crimson.

“Uh?”

“How long have you been like this?”

“Like?”

“This hard. This big.” Makoto chokes on nothing and spits.

“Um. Ah. A. While.” Haru keeps staring, looking almost critical.

“Hm.”

“What?”

“Nothing.”

“B- ah-!” Cold, slender fingers curl around his base, stroking long, hard and messy. Makoto’s embarrassingly wet, pre-cum leaking over the tip. It’s not fair, Makoto thinks, Haru is so unfair with his pretty hands, pretty face, pretty everything.

“You’re making a mess.” Haru says flatly, dipping his thumb into Makoto’s slit before pulling his hand off his dick completely. Makoto whines at the loss, at the pain of arousal.

“It’s all over my sleeve, see?”  Haru holds up his hand, shiny and wet, cum-stained sleeve pooling at his elbow. Droplets cascade down his wrist over his slender arm, and Makoto wants to-

“I can clean it up.” Makoto is so fucking drunk, he wants to bite his tongue off because, what the fuck, that’s so gross?

He watches Haru’s eyes widen, and Makoto is ready to get kicked out of the bedroom, virginity intact, because what a stupid gross thing to say.

“That’s.”

“Sorry, oh my go-”

“I need it though, so maybe when I’m done.” Makoto watches as Haru reaches behind himself, and he pales.

“Wait- wait.” Haru raises a brow, hand stalled against his ass.

“What now?” Makoto swallows.

“Um. My head is kinda spin-y from all the. You know. I don’t think. I can. Uh.” Makoto makes a light-hearted thrusting motion. Haru snorts.

“I can just get a bucket.”

Makoto croaks and Haru shakes his head, smile barely tugging at his lips.

“It’s fine. Like this then?”

Haru crawls between Makoto’s thighs, pushing his legs up. He feels wet, slick fingers press up against his hole, and he shivers, because the cold feels nice, Haru feels nice, it’s-

“Oh, god…” It’s just one finger, not that Makoto’s tried more on his own or anything, but it’s Haru’s, long and slender and perfect for-

“Ah- how did you- there, right there-” Haru crooks his finger, pressing hard. Makoto’s breath catches, spine curling off the bed.

“This okay?” Haru looks up, face blank but pupils blown dark

“Y-yeah. Yeah. Yeah.” Makoto’s barely breathing, short pants escaping from between his teeth. Haru reaches across him, fumbles in the bedside table drawers and throws lube and condoms haphazardly onto the bed.

“I hope these aren’t expired. I found these here when I moved…Explains why they’re all red…” Makoto stares at the telltale foil squares, shining bright red against the light. He wets his lips.

“More.” Haru looks back at him, finger stalled still.

“You sure?”

This time, Makoto doesn’t hesitate.

“Definitely.”

  
  


Haru is absolutely amazed at the capacity of assholes. He watches as four fingers stretch Makoto wide, mewling, desperate whines sounding from above.

“Haru, Haru, Haru! T-that’s good! You can- god-!” Haru almost doesn’t want to, because he’s fascinated watching, seeing his fingers being drawn in, seeing that hole abused to red, Haru almost feels sad that he’ll have to look away.

Almost.

His dick hurts too much to be that sad.

He pulls his fingers out, slow, awful, and Makoto whines loudly at being emptied.

“Hurry, hurry…”

“You’re noisy.”

Haru rips the gaudy red condoms open (he tries to ignore the color) and rolls it down to his base. He hisses, because jesus christ, he hasn’t been touched and it kills.

“You sure you’re okay?” Makoto just flails his head, clearly impatient. Haru, for some reason, feels skeptical.

“I’m gonna stop if it looks like it hurts.” Makoto pounds his fist into the mattress.

Haru sighs. He has a Feeling. He’s not sure what it is yet.

He positions himself, lining right up against Makoto’s entrance. He opens his mouth to ask if Makoto’s sure again, but presses his lips tight, because he already knows the answer.  Slowly, carefully, pushes forward. Very, very carefully, as slowly as he can.

He has to shut his eyes, because jesus christ, the pressure is unreal.

He doesn’t get to think about it for much, because-

“Ow, ow, owww…” Haru pulls right out and almost sighs in relief. He leans down, pushing hair off of Makoto’s forehead.

“I’m sorry, I dunno why it hurts?” Haru shrugs.

“S’fine. Wasn’t expecting to get this far.”

They lay there, chests pressing together, hard-ons angry and painful. The panting in the room is harsh, sex scented air swimming around their heads in a cloud.

“I’m.” Makoto tries.

“Yeah.”

“Here.” Makoto wraps his arms around Haru’s back and rolls them over onto their sides. Haru looks at him, eyebrow raised. Makoto shimmies down the bed, flipping himself so his thighs are beside Haru’s head

“What the fuck is this?”

“I saw it- uh.” Makoto stops. Haru is sure incriminating detail was to follow that statement.

“Just uh. Lemme try something.”

Haru grits his teeth and opens his mouth to say something, but he doesn’t get a chance, because his spine is quivering, his skin is crawling, and he’s gasping, shocked and loud, trailing off into a long moan, because-

“Makoto- no, I- fuck, fuck…” He presses his forehead against Makoto’s thigh, hiss escaping between his teeth. He feels a tongue press flat against the underside of his cock, tip trailing up to tease the slit, lips curling around the head clumsily. It’s messy, fumbling, inexperienced, but it’s such a foreign feeling, and when he feels Makoto humming against his dick, moans catching in the back of his throat, Haru feels something, feels something from Makoto getting off just from sucking his dick, it makes him want to-

“Nnngh—!” Haru could get used to it, the feeling of having his mouth full, almost too full, lips stretching across the incredible thickness of Makoto’s cock. The weight feels amazing on his tongue, heady taste crawling down his throat, Haru’s getting lost in everything, spine crawling, lips tingling, ears filled with the lewd sounds of sucking and humming.

And, somewhere in it all, Haru realizes how easy it all is.

Makoto makes it so easy.

He makes Haru want to give him everything.

Haru tries harder. He pushes down further, as far as he can go, and Makoto pulls off his dick to groan.

“Haru, no, stop- ah, s-” The response makes him eager, and he tries to go further. He feels the tip hit the back of his throat, and Haru recoils, cough racking up as he gags.

“Oh, no are you okay? Sorry, I know I’m-” Haru presses fingers to his throat, coughing lightly. There’s a tingle crawling up his spine, and he can’t place it, can’t place the strange spike he’s feeling, the arousal the pulses through his body and makes his dick twitch, all because he-

“Don’t do that again, okay? It feels so good, I don’t want you to hurt yourself…”

“I’m okay…” Haru pants, because he’s still reeling, thinking about shit that felt-

Makoto wraps his lips around his cock again, and Haru mewls, forgets what he was thinking about, because fuck, he’s close, they’re close-

“Come?” Makoto manages, mouth full. Haru lets his eyes flutter shut, mouth wrapping back around Makoto’s cock and he hums- yes.

They lap at each other, sloppy, drunk, messy with their heads between each others legs. The movement grows frantic, unrhythmic, thighs clench down on heads, moaning escalates, uncontrolled, unreserved, and Haru lets Makoto thrust into him, just a little bit, feels that shock of taking a little bit too much as it happens, and that makes him throb, makes his skin heat, makes his throat close up a little bit and it just-

“Haru, move, I- fuck!” Haru doesn’t have enough time. It hits him right in the back of the throat, spills over his lips, and dribbles down his chin. It should be disgusting, but it’s-

The whine is high, almost piercing, as Haru comes moaning around Makoto’s cum. Makoto whines from below, sounding somewhat disappointed, and vaguely, Haru remembers he’s wearing a condom.

 

It’s fucking disgusting when they finally manage to separate. The flannel is stuck to Haru’s body, sweat drenched and cum-stained. His jaw and throat hurt, his thighs are sore. They groan together, flipping onto their backs and staring up at the ceiling.

Haru rolls the condom lazily, tying it half-assedly like he was taught years ago in sex ed. He throws it in the general direction of the trash can, praying it makes it, and lets out a long, tired sigh.

“I.”

“Wow.”

“Okay.”

Makoto crawls back to the top of the bed.

“Um. If it’s okay. Can I spend the night here?”

Haru almost makes him leave. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the wait was not worth it  
> let me know that at kasuutan.tumblr.com


	7. mardy bum

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> haru wears red and makoto calls his mum

The first thing Makoto feels when he wakes up is the sensation to lean over the side of his bed and throw up. But he has some semblance of common sense, because cleaning vomit out of carpet is easily one of the most unpleasant things in the world, so he stumbles out of his bed (which feels closer to the ground than usual), stubs his toe in the door way, and makes his way blindly into the bathroom. 

Or, what should be a bathroom. He feels around for the light, and the switch isn’t there. He starts to panic, because he feels his body break cold sweat, his head swirl, and that metallic taste raising in the back of his throat. 

“Uh.” 

 

The first thing Haru thinks when he wakes up is “at least it’s Rin’s room, not mine”. He had felt the shift in the mattress when Makoto got up a few minutes ago, didn’t think much of it, tried to close his eyes to fall back asleep because fuck, it’s the weekly Sunday Hangover treatment morning, it’s law to not wake up before noon. 

But he hears retching, and doesn’t hear the flush after, and then hears “oh my GOD” coming from the opposite direction of the bathroom, and Haru wonders “why.” 

His eyes are still closed when he reaches the doorway to Rin’s bedroom. He lets them slip open when he hears whimpering at his feet. 

“Haru, haru I’m SO sorry, I forgot where I was and this is where my bathroom is at home so I thought-”

“It’s fine.” Haru doesn’t mention that he’s seen and done worse. He has flashbacks to the Post Australia Aftermath, the goon in every crevice of his body, behind his ears and between his asschecks, the sunglasses he’d had to pick up at City Convenience because going outside was physically painful for his eyes. That shitty pie Rin MADE him eat, watched him eat every bite of and wouldn’t STOP looking at him until it was gone. 

He’d definitely seen and done worse. 

Makoto’s crying and Haru feels kind of bad, but his head just mostly hurts, so he kneels down and pats Makoto’s shoulder gingerly. 

“It’s fine, really. Just go lie down. Do you need to be home at anytime?” Haru watches Makoto physically pale, and it looks like he’s about to retch again. Haru takes a step back. 

“Home…?”   
“Yeah. You remember where it is, right?” Makoto opens his mouth, looking positively horrified.   
“I. Can I use your bathroom?” Haru blinks. He points, down the hall across from his room. Makoto runs, and Haru’s kind of impressed with how quickly he can move, given the mess on Rin’s floor. 

The lock clicks, and Haru’s left with vomit for company. 

 

Makoto has his phone to his ear, pacing across Haru’s immaculately clean bathroom. He’s thinking up excuses faster than that time Nagisa “accidentally” left weed in his backpack and the twins had found it. 

_Maybe I can tell her I stayed over at Kisumi’s…no she doesn’t even know who Kisumi is, fuck fuck fuck I can’t believe I didn’t go-_

“Hello?”  
“Mom! Mom, I’m so sorry I didn’t-”

“Oh, Makoto, did you have fun at Nagisa’s?” 

Makoto freezes. 

“Nagisa?” 

“Yes, he called last night telling me you got really tired after the party and fell asleep on his floor, so he called me to let me know for you. You’re really blessed with some responsible friends, Makoto, I was really worried when you didn’t come home.” 

_God bless Nagisa what a saint thank you I owe my life to Nagisa._

“Oh, he did? He didn’t tell me. Well, I should thank him when he wakes up, hahah! Well, we’re going to get lunch and I’ll be on my way home after that so! Do you need anything?” 

Makoto’s mom runs a list of chores that need to be taken care of before Makoto heads home, and he remembers each of them, almost forgets what situation he’s currently in, feels like a normal day, until he says “bye, love you Mom!” and hangs up. He breathes a sigh of relief, and then looks in the bathroom mirror.

He leans over the sink, groans, and presses his phone against his ear again. 

Nagisa doesn’t even say “hello” when he picks up. 

“I’m meeting you downtown in an hour.”   
“Okay.” 

“Are you okay?” 

“Yeah. I’m okay. I’m really okay. I think.” Nagisa lets out a breath. 

“Good. Chill. Rad. Okay. You gotta tell me all about it.” 

“Wait, Nagisa.”   
“Hm?”   
“How did you know?”Makoto can almost hear Nagisa smiling. 

“I can just tell when you need my help, you know?” 

For some reason, that makes sense to Makoto. 

 

When Makoto gets out of the bathroom, Haru’s expertly cleaned the carpet to look like nothing’s ever happened. It’s a sad skill that Haru’s picked up, and as he vacuums up the coffee grounds that disguise the smell, but not the lurking shame, he wonders how many times you’d have to clean up puke to be considered “good” at it. 

“God, Haru, I’m really sorry, I could have done it…” Haru unplugs the vacuum and rolls it across the hall to the closet. 

“Don’t worry about it. ” He almost says he’s used to it. “Everything okay?” 

Makoto nods. 

“Yeah. A friend was just worried about me.” Haru nods. He wonders what its like to be worried about. 

“I should probably call Rin. Later, maybe.” Haru walks out into the kitchen, Makoto following like a lost dog. 

“Are you hungry?” It seems like the right thing to offer and ask. He’s not sure what the morning etiquette after hooking up is. Maybe he SHOULD call Rin. 

“Um.” He hears Makoto’s stomach rumble. 

“I can make toast and grill fish.” 

“No! It’s okay, you totally don’t have to- grill fish? It’s 9 in the morning…” 

“Your point? I’m going to make it anyways, so if you don’t want to eat it, it’s just more for me.” 

Haru clears the kitchen counter, throws the leftover vodka in the freezer and pulls bread and fish from the fridge. Makoto sits across from him at the island, which ordinarily would be unnerving, but it’s strangely comfortable. He lets him watch, cleans the fish in comfortable, not-awkward silence. 

It’s when Haru pops the toast into the toaster that Makoto finally says something. 

“So um. Last night was.” 

Haru picks at his fingers, presses his nails into the pads of his thumbs. This is the part Haru hates. 

“You don’t have to say anything about it.” Haru slides the plate of fish across the counter and pulls out two pairs of chopsticks. Makoto looks at the utensils, and Haru denies that he’s holding his breath. 

Makoto picks up a pair and breaks off a piece of fish. He looks at Haru and smiles, and Haru likes that he gets it. He takes the other pair and settles into the stool besides Makoto, thighs not quite touching, but close enough to know that everything’s okay. 

“Wow, you know, I’ve never had fish for breakfast, but this is good.” 

“It’s just salt and lemon.” Makoto laughs. 

“I don’t know what that means, I can’t cook to save my life.” Makoto breaks off another piece, and Haru feels his shoulders drop, because Makoto’s easy, and maybe he doesn’t have to worry anymore. 

The toaster dings, and Haru almost doesn’t want to stand up.

“Oh, no, I’ll get it.” Makoto presses his hand on Haru’s thigh. He feels himself flush, and Haru tugs on his hair to cover his ears. 

It’s weird, watching Makoto walk around in his kitchen, taking a plate down from the cupboard, pulling toast from his toaster, walking back to his seat, and falling back into place next to him, like he belongs there as much as everything else in the apartment

“Thanks.” Haru mumbles it into the toast as he bites around his own embarrassment. He wonders about his priorities, why mutual dick sucking is something he can think about with a straight face, but the minute Makoto’s hand brushes against the tips of his fingers just to reach for the bread, Haru doesn’t know how to handle it. 

He puts his hand in his lap. 

“Okay, I was going to say stuff about how last night was fun, but I got distracted by the food.” Makoto looks at Haru with that stupid, gentle “I can’t do anything wrong” face, and Haru isn’t sure if he can deal with Makoto sober, because he feels himself melt into his chair a little bit. 

“So um. I guess I’ll start over and say it now? Last night was fun.” Haru looks down at his hands. 

“Yeah.” 

“And. Um. I think I told you this before when I visited you that last time at the-uh. But like I said, I. I wanted to get to know you more. And um. After I left that night, I was kinda. Sad. That I’d messed up and I’d never get a chance to talk to you again.” Haru watches Makoto fiddle with his thumbs, chew at his lips like he does when he’s nervous, he bets. He doesn’t know how to feel about this, because this is everything Haru’s sworn to never deal with again, it doesn’t suit him, this emotional complexity and vulnerability. 

“So like. Seeing you again last night.” Makoto chuckles, looks up at the ceiling like he’s recalling something pleasant and reminiscent, not some drunk finger banging in a rich kid’s bathroom. 

“The way it happened it almost felt like I was getting a second chance? And then after, you asking me to come home with you, all the way back it kinda felt like that night you picked me out of the crowd for-” Again, Makoto has the gall to blush. 

“Anyways. I dunno what I’m trying to tell you other than. Thanks for having me over. It was nice. I think you’re nice.” 

Haru doesn’t know what to say. It’s a common theme he’s noticing with Makoto- Haru doesn’t talk unnecessarily, but he almost never finds himself speechless. But there’s something about Makoto that keeps leaving him this way. 

“You don’t have to say anything, of course, I’m just. Happy and I thought you deserved to know that.” And Makoto smiles, again, like it’s just easy and permanently part of him, and Haru doesn’t know how to deal with being looked at the way Makoto looks at him. 

“I.”Haru stops. He presses his hands against the kitchen counter, digs the edge into his palm.He shifts his eyes over Makoto’s face, moves from his soft, green eyes, freckled cheeks, to teeth-dented lips. Haru leans in, because Makoto deserves an answer, he wants to give Makoto an answer, but he’s just not sure-

He presses a finger against Makoto’s mouth, runs his thumb against the chapped skin. He feels Makoto’s breath catch between his lips, and maybe someday, Haru thinks, he’ll be able to do it properly.

“You chew on your lip when you’re nervous.” Haru pulls his hand back into his lap and looks off to the side. “You don’t need to be so nervous all the time.” Makoto laughs again, and Haru wants to memorize it. 

“Sorry, it’s a little hard not to be around you, you’re just so-”

Haru shakes his head. He’s not _so_ anything.   
“I. Thanks. For being here.” It’s vague and non committal, but Haru thinks- no, _knows_ \- Makoto will understand. 

And when Makoto’s face brightens, lights up like Haru’s given him everything, he knows everything is okay. 

Haru feels Makoto’s phone buzz against his thigh, and it occurs to him how close they’re actually sitting. They both stand awkwardly, Haru busying himself with collecting dishes and placing them in the sink. 

“Ah…I need to go. My friend- he’s meeting me downtown in a few minutes.” Haru hums and occupies himself washing plates, trying to pretend to not be disappointed. 

Makoto shuffles around the counter, digging through Haru’s unopened mail and old shopping lists. Haru turns the sink off and looks up, eyebrows disappearing beneath his bangs. He sees Makoto bent over the counter, pen tight between his fingers. 

“What are you doing?” Makoto starts, jumps up from the counter like he’s done something wrong. He drops the pen and it rolls off the counter, clacking against the tile. 

“Um! Nothing, it’s nothing. Don’t worry about it. I should be going now.”

“Yeah. Okay.”   
Makoto stalls in the door way, toeing around his shoes idly. He fiddles with the door handle, looking around like he’s expecting something. 

Haru feels something pang in his chest. He isn’t sure what to call it, but it kind of feels like disappointment. 

“Makoto.” 

“Yes! I mean, uh. Yeah?”

Haru feels the corners of his lips tremble. 

“See you soon.” 

And Makoto smiles. 

“Yeah!” 

Makoto is frantic. Nervous at best and anxious at worst, he’s stumbling through young adulthood with one eye blind. He has his left shoe untied and bread crumbs sticking to the corners of his mouth.

When the door closes with a soft click, Haru lets himself smile. 

* * *

 

Nagisa spits milkshake all over Makoto’s face. He presses a napkin to his mouth, partially to wipe off the splatters across his jaw, and also to hide the blush creeping its way up to his cheeks. 

“You did WHAT with your stripper?!”  
“Nagisa, shush!” Makoto throws his hands in front of him, like he’s calming a rambunctious child. He glances around nervously for any sign of the general public hearing Nagisa’s sudden exlamation. 

“I can’t believe this….I can’t believe YOU not only drunk fingerbanged in a bathroom at your first college party, but you also got picked up by a hot boy and chewed on each other’s dicks until the sun came out???” Makoto presses his forehead to the table. 

“The sun wasn’t out _yet.”_ is the only correction Makoto has. 

Nagisa leans back in his chair, legs tipping off the floor as the wood knocks into the wall behind him. 

“Was he good?” Makoto makes a sound like a “peep” and glances around again. 

“He said he was- that he’d never. Before.” Makoto makes some vague hand gestures to match his sentence. “I almost don’t believe him, it was…” 

“Really good?” 

“Like unbelievably good.” Makoto doesn’t mention Haru tripping and falling ass out or his failed attempt at getting dicked, but Makoto still thinks even with those two things, it was in fact unbelievably good. 

Nagisa wails and presses his face into the table. 

“No faaaaair, he’s so pretty, I want a turn.” 

“Nagisa, don’t say that. He’s not a toy.” Nagisa rolls his face over to give a half-hearted glare. 

“Says you, you’re the one who got to put your fingers up his butt.” 

“Just. Don’t talk about him like he’s a thing, okay?” Because Makoto knows he isn’t. 

“Oh. _I_ see.” Makoto doesn’t see what there is to see. “So, when are you going to ask him out?” 

Makoto stands up to leave, but Nagisa just drags him back down to the table. 

“I don’t think I’m in a position to think about that???” Makoto’s voice raises two octaves and he feels his skin heat up. 

“So, you’re not denying the fact that like you’re probably going to ask him out at some point.” Nagisa twirls the straw around in his strawberry milkshake, smirk curling up on the corners of his lips. 

“I! I mean- look- listen, I- ugh.” Makoto presses his face into his hands. “It’s not that easy. I don’t even really know him.” 

“I mean it sounds like you got to know a lot of him.” 

“I _mean_ I don’t know a lot about _him._ ” 

“You knew even less about him before you let him take you home, so why are you suddenly all weird about it? You guys sucked dicks mutually. I think you’re beyond the threshold of ‘getting to know each other better.’”

Makoto presses sweaty palms over Nagisa’s mouth. 

“Can you _not?!”_ Nagisa has to lick the inside of his hand before Makoto lets go of his face. “Besides. I was. You know I don’t handle drinks very well, and we definitely had…” He tries not to remember the mess he made on the carpet earlier that morning. 

“So, are you telling me you’re regretting things?”

“Well…” 

“You’re telling me you definitely do not want what happened last night to happen again?”

“I didn’t say…” 

“You wanted to go him with him, didn’t you? He didn’t force you to go, did he?” 

“No!” It’s the most absolute thing Makoto’s said all afternoon. “He definitely didn’t force me to go with him.” Makoto leans back in his seat and looks down at his hands. “If anything, he kept telling me it was okay if I didn’t want to.” 

“So. You wanted to?” 

“Yeah.” Makoto wants to know where Nagisa’s getting with this. 

“And even now, after probably upping it all over his carpet or something…” Makoto wails and wonders how Nagisa even knew that??? “And then coming downtown to have the trademark hangover cure meal…” Nagisa waves his hands at the pizza and french fires, coated in grease that glows golden under the fluorescent light. “You still think last night was a great time?” 

“…Yeah.” 

“Then what are you worried about?” 

Makoto picks at his fingers and chews on his lip. 

“What about him?” Nagisa looks up from his milkshake and stares. The smirk falls from his lips and he looks at Makoto with a straight face, as serious as he can get with a strawberry milkshake mustache. 

“What if _he_ doesn’t want to? What if he _didn’t_ want to?” Makoto rubs his palms against his thighs, wet and clammy from thinking too much. 

“Why would you think he didn’t? He’s the one who invited you to his place.” Makoto plays with the ends of his hair. 

“Well…he seemed. Sad. He seems sad. I dunno. What if this is just how he deals with things? What if he does this with everyone? He said he never had before, but what if he tells everyone that?” Nagisa raises a brow and wipes his mouth on the back of his sleeve. 

“Do you honestly believe that, or are you just worrying for the sake of it again?” 

And for once, Makoto stops overthinking.

_“You chew on your lip when you’re nervous. You don’t need to be so nervous all the time.”_

Makoto knows Haru struggles with words- he can see it on his face when he strings sentences together, how the skin between his eyebrows creases just a bit, how his tongue darts out to wet his lips before he says anything. Makoto knows he isn’t the only one who knows how to get nervous. 

_“Thanks for being here.”_

Makoto wonders how hard it was for Haru to put those words together and let it past his teeth. 

“No…I don’t think he’s like that.” Makoto finally says, more to himself than to Nagisa. Nagisa lets the smile dance back onto his lips, a real one this time, not a smirk at Makoto’s expense. 

“I thought so.” 

“What do you mean you thought so?” Makoto wonders how Nagisa does this, knows the answers to things before Makoto does himself. 

“I just know.” Nagisa slurps at his straw and the cup gargles beneath his mouth. “I know you, Mako-chan, and there’s something about the way you keep looking at Haru-chan that says a lot more than you think.” Makoto blinks, and Nagisa shrugs. “Or, you could just be horny. That’s totally a possibility too.” 

Makoto chews on his pizza, cheese sticking between his teeth. 

“I don’t know…There’s a lot of things to figure out…First off he’s a- you know…” Nagisa raises a brow. 

“And that’s a problem because…?” Makoto shrugs. 

“I dunno, it just feels weird.” Nagisa frowns around his straw, but he doesn’t say anything. 

“And then he kept talking about his roommate. I can’t tell if they hate each other or are in love or something. I dunno. I just. I have a feeling that there’s a lot going on in his life.” It’s a foreign concept to Makoto- having too much in life to deal with. Makoto sometimes feels like he doesn’t have enough. 

“So be one of those things.” 

“Huh?” Nagisa pulls the straw out of his cup and points it at Makoto, flicking strawberry milkshake all over his face. 

“Be one of the things going on his life. If he already has so much happening, one more thing can’t hurt.” 

Makoto looks down at his lap and rolls his phone around in his hands. He wonders if that’s true, if it really can’t hurt. 

* * *

 

Haru cleans the kitchen, dispels the smell of sex from his bedroom, takes a bath to wash out the crusted cum on his skin, and Rin still isn’t home. 

He towels himself off as he walks through the empty apartment back to his bedroom. It’s quiet. Haru thought he’d enjoy it. But he misses the sound of Rin’s shit music shaking the walls, the way Rin closes doors to loudly and rattles the photos in the hallway, misses the muffled sob-singing of Rin belting along to Drake songs, pretending he is the girl Drake is singing about. 

Most of all, Haru misses not being worried. 

It’s not the first time Rin’s not come home, but for some reason, Haru feels like this time is different. 

He unlocks his phone and types out a message. 

_rin_

_me: you okay_

 

Haru stares at it for a bit before realizing Rin could very well still be asleep, it’s not even noon yet on a Sunday, so he throws his phone onto the mattress and lays back against the sheets. He buries his face into soft fabric, tinted with the smell of lemon soap and expensive vodka. He rubs his cheek against flannel and pulls it over his face before he even takes a moment to realize what the fuck he’s doing. 

“Oh my god.” Haru sits up and throws the shirt onto the ground, dejected red flannel stark against the white carpet. He pushes his hair back and covers his mouth with one hand. Heat rises from his neck, coats his cheeks, and sweats into his hairline. 

This is stupid. 

This is _so_ stupid. 

Haru picks the flannel up and pulls it over his arms and around his chest. 

He picks up his keys from the bowl next to the front door and scribbles a note on one of the unpaid bills tucked behind the empty fishbowl. 

_left my sweater at kisumi’s. leftover fish in the fridge. text me when you get home._

He tells himself all the way to the train station, oversized sleeves hanging over the tips of his fingers, that he’s only wearing it because he’s missing his sweater. 

Haru likes the smell of lemon soap. 

* * *

 

When he wakes up early like this, Sousuke likes to pretend it’s last year, when he could see red on his pillows and smile. Rin’s hair fans out against the dull white of Sousuke’s sheets, looking more like blood stains that can’t be washed out. He runs fingers through the strands, and they feel soft against his skin. 

Rin stirs in his sleep and does something he would have never done last year, when Sousuke could see red on his pillows and smile. He turns away, rolls to the far end of the bed, bare back to Sousuke’s chest. 

Sousuke is no good at playing pretend. 

It’s even harder when Rin isn’t playing along, either. 

Sousuke’s lost count of the number of times they’ve done this, ended up in each other’s beds when they know they don’t belong there. He tries to tell himself it’s just habit, it doesn’t mean anything, they’re just bored and young adults, and it’s really just convenient. 

When Rin mumbles incoherently in his sleep, and then Sousuke feels endeared, because he remembers when Rin used to sleep talk into his chest in the middle of the night, Sousuke can’t even lie to himself anymore. 

He hears Rin’s phone buzz, muffled by the fabric of forgotten jeans and torn fabric. Sousuke doesn’t need to get up and check to know who it is. He turns onto his own side, rolls to the opposite end of the bed until there’s enough space for a third person between them. 

Sousuke wonders if there will ever be two spaces in the bed instead of three. 

For now though, the middle of the mattress stays empty. 

* * *

 

It’s almost like Kisumi was waiting for him to show up. The gate to the community is already open, Haru doesn’t need to buzz himself in. When he walks up the driveway, the front door is even open. Haru doesn’t bother to knock.

The state of the house makes Haru want to leave. Red cups litter the floor to the point where the carpet isn’t visible. It smells sick, and Haru feels awful for Kisumi’s cleaners. Streamers hang limp off the railings of the staircase, sad and crumbled and torn. There are imprints of people on the leather couches, and Haru bets if he touches the upholstery, it’ll still be warm with body heat. 

Haru climbs the stairs, and he hates that the walk to Kisumi’s bedroom is familiar. If he looks hard enough, Haru can almost see imprints in the carpet of his own shoes, steps taken over and over again until they’re permanently part of the house. 

Haru drags his feet. He wonders how long it takes for a habit to break. 

“Haru? Didn’t you leave last night?” Haru jumps, nearly falls off the stairs. He looks up and sees Kisumi decked in a silk Valentino pajama set, face twisted into a half yawn. 

“Actually, you don’t need to answer that, I know you left last night.” 

“I forgot my sweater.” Kisumi smirks, that smirk that makes Haru’s skin crawl, where his eyes slide closed and his lips curl up and it reminds Haru’s he’s less than nothing. 

“Oh, I know you did! I found it in my bathroom while I was cleaning up.” Haru doubts Kisumi’s done any cleaning in his life. 

“I know you know that lube you used is pricey. There’s no reason for you to use half a bottle of it. Especially if most of it ends up on the bathroom counter.” Kisumi walks down the stairs and waves for Haru to follow. 

“I dunno what you’re-”

“Haru, you’re an _awful_ liar.” Haru presses his lips together. They make their way back down the staircase and stop in the kitchen. Kisumi pulls open the fridge and takes out this green sludge that looks something like blended sea scum, and pours it into a tall glass. 

He looks Haru up and down, glass pressed against his lips. 

“Hm. Red doesn’t suit you.” Haru crosses his arms self consciously. 

“I know.” 

“Ah, then why’d you wear it?” Kisumi leans on the kitchen counter, head propped in his palms. He smiles, head tilted, and Haru feels himself squirm. He _hates_ the way Kisumi does this. He wonders when he’ll let it stop happening. 

“Because I forgot my sweater. It’s cold out.” Kisumi chuckles and trails fingers down Haru’s sleeve. He feels the hairs on his arm prickle,and Haru looks at the ground. 

“Honey, we know you never get cold.” Haru knows that isn’t true, Kisumi makes him feel cold. “So, what are you trying to tell me?” 

Haru grits his teeth, hands clutching the fabric of Makoto’s shirt. 

“I just came back for my sweater.” Kisumi hums, sipping green sludge slowly. 

“It’s on the chair.” Kisumi nods his head towards the dining room table, blue sweater folded neatly over the wood. Haru walks, feet still dragging in the carpet so he doesn’t leave footprints again, and takes the sweater from the chair. 

“Thanks.” 

“Oh, and Haru.” Haru doesn’t want to listen, he knows he doesn’t need to stay to hear it. He stops at the door, looking down at the doormat. 

“Don’t do Makoto like you did us.” 

The entire train ride back home, Haru clutches at the fabric of Makoto’s shirt. He realizes he can’t say “I won’t.” 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> short chapter with too long of a wait, i want to promise the next one wont take as long to come out but ??? thanks for sticking around pals. things are starting to get heavy, watch out.


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